The Winter of our Discontent
by Eliza-Lou-Riley
Summary: Jackson Overland, a budding journalist aiming for the stars, gets his big break when asked to cover the life story of Hiccup Haddock, a victim of heart disease in desperate need of major surgery to treat the illness that is slowly killing him. Jack wishes to keep personal feelings at bay. But both are soon to discover love is a force of nature, that no disease can ever infect.
1. Chapter 1

_'You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.'_

* * *

**To Mr Jackson Overland Frost,**

_I have recently come across your article concerning my son, Henrick Haddock. First of all, may I congratulate you on your achievement; as you may know, his story has made headlines all across the country and I have no doubt that it has earned you a tidy sum._

_However, there are several points in your article that I find to be extremely false. I do not blame yourself for this of course; you are paid to write down what you hear and perhaps add in a little exaggerated detail to attract attention. I have no doubt that you heard most of it from my son Henrick, who I have unfortunately had a difficult relationship with since I left the family._

_Though I am ashamed to admit it, yes, it is partly true. I did leave when Henrick was still a child and was halfway through his treatment. However it seems the media enjoys portraying me as some sort of evil, abusive tyrant who had no thought or care for his family. Therefore, I would like to distinguish this monstrous image created by the papers and give my own account for my part in Henrick's story._

_When Henrick was born, we all knew there had been complications with the birth. Of course, we never expected heart disease; I don't think any parent ever does expect that sort of thing - or they wish not to expect it. After all, children are not easily fixed. There is no miracle cure. It is years of stress, blood, sweat and tears you are faced to endure and I think people underestimate the difficulty of raising a child with a terminal illness. The truth is, you don't have a life anymore, Mr Overland. You can't think about yourself. Every hour, every second is making sure you do everything to keep them alive._

_But Henrick was not the reason I left, no matter what he says. My wife and I grew apart, as you can imagine, for we both had different ways of handling his treatment. Through my eyes it would be damaging to treat Henrick differently to other children; he had a right to go outside and socialize with others, do the things a normal child was permitted to do. But it was my wife's belief that he should stay in the house, away from the poisons of the outside world. That's why I left, Mr Overland, because she didn't want me there. But it is clear that my son was told a different story. I was never a drunk, Mr Overland, nor was I ever violent. These are all fables created by a woman who wanted me out of her child's life._

_And the truth about Henrick's mother? She took her own life and I think you are aware of why she made this decision. And to this day I have never forgiven her for it. She didn't do it for her son, Mr Overland. She did it for herself, out of her own selfishness. Yet, she is hailed as a heroine who underwent major trauma and grief, while I am still the hatless villain._

_I am relying on you to clear my name, Mr Overland. Not because I want the fame, or the praise or any sort of press attention. Because I want Henrick to know that I was never a monster. That I was always there and I always cared. And I still do._

_I don't think anyone knows the fear of losing a child until they actually have one. You constantly feel like you've lost your way, standing alone in the rain while life around you continues outside the small bubble you've been trapped in. And sometimes, it is all over quickly; the long painful struggle comes to an end and you can rest knowing your child is at peace. But then again, some go through this journey their whole existence, never knowing where they stand or what's been planned out for them._

_I only ask you one favour, Mr Overland. And I hope you will make Henrick realise that his father always loved him and still does love him, despite the wall that has been built between us._

_Take care of him._

**Yours sincerely, Mr. Staniel 'Stoick' Haddock.**


	2. Chapter 2

'Mister Overland?'

I tear my eyes away from the screen before me for a brief moment to press the coffee cup against my awaiting lips; I hadn't managed to get breakfast that morning, so a dash of caffeine is always something to perk me up. There has never been a busier day at the office and the noise is proving to be a killer; I sometimes wonder how the hell anyone is able to answer a phone call in this place.

It is the city jungle, the habitat for all business folk – or in our case, the budding journalists. Unfortunately, I am still at the rookie stage of the job. I haven't written anything yet. My job is to answer the phone and occasionally fetch my co-workers their cappuccinos. My big break seems to be miles off into the future, speeding away on a metaphorical train.

'Overland? Did you hear me?'

I look up at Ana, wiping the smear of coffee from the side of my mouth, 'Yeah, I heard you. What's up?'

'Mr North wants to see you in his office.'

I pause, the coffee cup inches from touching my lips again, 'He does? What have I done?'

She smiles at me, her small pink mouth making her face look prettier than ever, 'Why don't you come and find out for yourself?'

Ana is not what you would expect of a secretary; she's tall, slim figured and pretty but she's also quick witted and very hard to read at times. Her hair is rainbow at the ends, often tied up in a messy bun whenever she's in a meeting and she always wears green, contrasting with the bland atmosphere around her so she sticks out. She's the sort of person you knew you can trust; no matter what happens, I always know I can trust Ana.

I think it wise to ask her if I'm in any sort of trouble or not but she's already turned and started walking out of the office, her small clover-green heels slapping against the smooth, porcelain floor as she goes. I notice everyone's gaze fall upon me, all of them asking the same question that's running through my own head.

_'What's Jackson Overland Frost done this time?'_

It must have been something dire, seeing as I always steer clear of pranks around Mr North, my boss, the editor-in-chief. He is the heart of the newsroom. He cracks the whip and we jump through the hoop. He says '_Jump_,' and we ask, '_How high?_'

And me? I'm a doe-eyed rookie with a reputation for clowning around. Perhaps he's decided he needs one less joker working for his company. It's a proud company too. _Burgess Enterprise_. We have the biggest ratings in the city.

I struggle to keep in step with Ana and her longer legs, half scurrying in an effort not to be left behind. I'm nervous, in case I really _am_ in trouble. But like I said, I trust Ana. She wouldn't have teased. She would have told me immediately if something was wrong.

She leads me through the glass doors to a long, narrow hall, where at the far end, written in gold, are the words _Mr N North, editor in chief._

Funny, I've never known what the other 'N' stands for.

I follow her into his office and see Mr North sitting at his desk, sharpening pencils. I remember the old jokes told to the new recruits about how those pencils are actually secret instruments of torture, used to gauge out the eyes of slackers and layabouts. Of course, I'm not one to believe it, but Mr North is a large man and yes, his ability to kill someone is frighteningly believable. Were he to lock those large, broad arms around my own skinny neck, he could easily snap it in seconds.

He stops sharpening when he catches sight of us and puts the pencils in his drawer.

'Ah, Mister Overland,' his Russian accent comes out thick and without any threat, 'please, take a seat.'

Ana leaves us, returning to her desk outside and I take a seat hesitantly, still unsure of his intentions. Well, he isn't angry. Yet there is no sense of overwhelming joy either. More…imperative. Yes, that's the proper word for the look he's giving me. He means business.

'Aster Bunnymund has been informing me of your progress, Mister Overland.' He rises from his chair, beginning to pace the room, 'He says you have exceeded all expectations.'

'He…he has?' I ask foolishly, my eyes nervously following his pacing.

I'm surprised at the least; I had thought that Aster Bunnymund, the Australian sports editor, didn't like me at all. He had been given the gruelling job of looking after me on my first day and I wasn't exactly the easiest person to show around; on account of the fact I broke the coffee machine and accidentally shredded a load of important files instead of the scrap paper he had given me. So to hear that I have "exceeded expectations" comes as a minor shock.

'Apparently you're very patient, assertive and reliable,' he goes to one of the pictures on his wall, a young portrait of himself and admires it a while, 'I assume he is correct in his statement?'

'Uh…I suppose.' I flush, unsure of whether there is a right or wrong answer to this question.

He chuckles at this, 'you are too modest, Mister Overland,' he moves away from the picture and faces me again, 'and seem very suitable for the task at hand.'

I blink, 'Task?'

'You studied at university, did you not?'

'Yes, I'm a graduate. I…I have two degrees in journalism and English language – plus a specialist degree in economics.'

He scratches his bearded chin, 'Have you ever written a professional article before?'

'Well…I wouldn't say _professional_…I wrote a lot of mock articles as a child. But never for a proper paper…'

He seems amused by this information, 'Interesting…as Ana may have informed you-'

'She hasn't told me anything,' I cut in quickly.

'Then I suppose it is down to me to ask the fatal question,' he laughs at my startled expression, 'I have recently lost my best publisher for the lifestyle section of our paper and I am in dire need of a new one to cover our latest story.'

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Looks like I'll be fetching coffee for this new publisher until I'm blue in the face.

'Since Aster Bunnymund is so impressed with your progress…well, it would be nice to see some fresh meat on the case for a change. I figured it was time to see what the rest of my work force had to offer.'

I stare at him, 'If-if you don't mind me asking sir…what are you suggesting I do?'

'Mister Overland, do you think you're up for the job?'

'You mean…publishing? _Actual_ publishing?'

'Of course it isn't an easy subject to cover. I've already had several rejections for the job already. It's quite an opportunity though – especially with the extra pay it will come with. But I can understand if you decide to back out at the offer-'

'What is it?' I ask and realise how rude and demanding I sound, 'I mean, what's the story about, if you don't mind me asking?'

He sits in his chair again, removing his glasses a moment to wipe them down before replacing them back on the bridge of his nose, 'As I said, the subject is delicate. We've recently had reports of a young man – goes by the name of Henrick Haddock – who is currently requesting funding for coronary bypass surgery.'

'What's that?'

'It's an operation to improve the blood supply to his heart muscle – and it could consequently save his life. He is unable to provide the money for the treatment and is making an appeal for donations as his mother recently passed away and he is having financial difficulties. We have already contacted him and he has agreed to have his life story published in our paper in exchange for publicity of his appeal. The only thing we need now is someone to cover the story; meet with him, interview him and then write it up. The whole thing will probably be around a six-month process.'

I feel myself sag a little and I'm not sure why. My big break is looking me in the face. I _need_ this. I'm not living off pennies but the extra money wouldn't do any harm, especially as it is just me in a one bedroom apartment with only a marmalade cat who comes with vet and food bills for company. I can just about feed myself. But this job means I could feed myself _and_ perhaps buy a new car.

But then comes the reminder of what I would be covering if I were to take this job up. As Mr North pointed out, the subject of terminal illness is a delicate topic. I begin to question my writing ability; the last thing I want to do is offend anyone, for people can view articles in many different ways. I could be scorned, criticised…maybe even become a controversial icon.

But then again, as Aster once told me, '_You have to be ready for people to laugh at you, Overland. All that matters is you get across to those who are willing to listen.'_

Mr North watches me patiently, as I consider all these possibilities.

'…how much more pay?' I ask with caution.

'About double your current salary.'

I would be a fool to throw the chance away. I know he's only asking me because no one else wants the job; it's nothing to do with me "exceeding expectations." He just knows how desperate I am and that I can't possibly turn this opportunity down.

I twiddle my thumbs together, '…I'll take it.'

'Excellent,' he begins sorting through the files littered on his desk, 'Now, there are a few things you'll need to sign before you get started. And I'll have Ana set up your office for you-'

'My own office?'

'Of course. Hard work comes with its benefits.'

I feel myself glowing, 'Sir, I…t-thank you sir. And I won't let you down.'

He reaches out a large hand, 'Welcome aboard, Mister Overland.'


	3. Chapter 3

I begin planning out the article as soon as I get home.

Structure is important in regards to publishing; the right layout is sometimes all you need to catch the viewer's eye. I'm determined to make this legendary, a story that will be remembered for years to come; the sentimental tale of the young Henrick Haddock, the prey of heart disease, whose tragic account will have the public soaking the earth with their tears.

First comes the title, which is easier said than done. I'll have to avoid all that tabloid shit; I don't want such a serious issue being turned into a farce. It needs to be something carefully thought out, suitable to the stressing issue yet also able to draw in the crowds.

I realise I'm thinking too far ahead. Meeting Henrick in person will give me inspiration, make it easier to actually get something on paper. I can't afford to screw this up. This will be the making of Jackson Overland.

Sandy wraps himself around my legs so I allow him to clamber onto my lap like he usually does towards the end of the evening. I think about Henrick. I've never heard of him despite what Mr North had said about his appeal. My timid spirit is slightly sceptical of meeting with him if his condition is anything to go by; after all, he has every reason to be bitter about life. And he has every reason to be bitter to me; a complete stranger spilling his story out to the world. He has every reason to hate me.

But there goes my pessimist mind again; I'll never know what sort of character he is until I meet him. And whether he is bitter or not, I'll have to put up with it; like I said before, I need this and I can't afford any screw-ups.

Ana calls me that same night with Henrick's details. He lives outside Burgess, in a small unknown town called Berk. It's no surprise that he can't afford medical treatment; most of Berk's population live in poverty and having something like heart disease plus the burden of being penniless is beyond unfortunate. This appeal is a cry for help if not anything else.

But of course I can't allow personal feelings to get in the way of my writing. I am to publish the information given to me and nothing else. This is business. I'm the journalist and he is the interviewee. As soon as these six months are done, I'll never see him again. Simple as pie. Though in reality, _Pi_ is a damn mind-fuck.

It seems more respectable to contact Henrick rather than turning up to his door out of the blue. Ana has provided me with a cell number but I'm unsure of what to say to him; for starters we have to sort out a date to meet and then of course, discuss the article and its contents. I need to make sure he's comfortable with what is required.

Someone else gets to the phone before Henrick has a chance to. There's a clattering sound and all I can hear is a weird snuffling noise, like heavy breathing.

'Uh…Mister Haddock?' I ask foolishly, slipping on my large, thick framed glasses in case I need to write anything down – for in reality, I am as blind as a bat, but too vain to wear glasses and too clumsy for contacts.

The noise continues in response.

'Toothless?' I hear in the background, a strangely hoarse voice, 'Oh for God's sake, _Toothless_!'

Thus follows several minutes of rummaging on the other end of the line, whilst I wait in slight bewilderment. And then finally a voice croaks, 'Hello?'

'Mister Haddock?' I clear my throat, using the tone of voice I always use on the phone, 'This is Mister Jackson Overland, publisher from Burgess Enterprise. I've been requested to cover your story for the next six months.'

'Oh yeah,' he laughs slightly, 'I apologise for that; my dog has a habit of knocking the phone over whenever it rings.'

I chuckle, 'I understand. I have a cat myself.'

Sandy purrs and relocates to my shoulders, slumping all his body weight against them.

'Now, back to the reason I called; we need to settle on an appropriate date to meet – plus a suitable location.'

There is a moment's pause, 'Tuesday is good for me. Is it good for you?'

'Hold on a sec,' I press my ear against the phone, balancing it on my shoulder while I sort through my desk to locate my diary, 'Uh…yeah. Tuesday's sweet.'

He laughs slightly at that, 'Then it's a date.'

I feel myself flush slightly, my hand carefully scribbling across the page, _Meeting Henrik._

'How's three-thirty sound?'

'Sounds good,' he replies and I hear the dog again in the background, 'Not now Toothless, I'm on the phone.'

I cough, 'and the location?'

'I think we'll stay in the house. I don't really like to go out since I made my appeal.'

'I see,' I mumble, knowing how hounding the media can be when it senses a fresh story, 'That's fine. And don't worry – I won't draw any attention while I'm there.'

'Thanks. There have been a few photographers sniffing around since I made my appeal and all these reporters wanting interviews. The only reason I agreed to this was because I need the publicity in order to get donations,' he breaks off a moment to cough and then carries on, wheezing slightly, 'but I'm sure you have other things to do right now. Besides, we can discuss more on Tuesday.'

I glance at my watch, 'Yeah, I have a few calls to make. So…I guess I'll see you on Tuesday then…'

'I look forward to meeting you.'

I hitch up my glasses, 'And if you don't feel comfortable with some of the questions…you know…you don't have to answer them. I don't want to be intruding.'

'You're the first reporter I've ever heard say those words,' I hear him snort slightly, 'But thank you. I appreciate that. Goodbye Mister Overland.'

'Goodbye…' I replace the phone on the hook, slipping the diary back into my desk drawer.

He seems an interesting kid. I'm aware that you can't really judge a person over a telephone call but he seems…friendly. Easy to talk to. Certainly not bitter.

Writing this article is going to be anything but boring. I know that already.


	4. Chapter 4

He was correct about the photographers; when I arrive at the house the next day I catch a few of them around the back, smoking against the wall; probably waiting for someone to appear at the window or draw back the curtains so they can take a few snaps for tomorrow's headlines. That's their job after all, to be nosy. It's what they're paid to do. But that doesn't necessarily make it right.

I know one of the smokers. I know him well in fact and I wonder if there is any possibility of me getting away without being spotted. But who am I kidding? He notices everything. He puts his cigarette aside for a brief moment and his tall, lean figure strides towards me.

'Hello Pitch…' I murmur quietly, adjusting the briefcase I've brought under my arm.

His lips twitch, as if he's considering a smile, though that seems insanely doubtful in this situation, 'It's been a while since you called me that.'

I lower my eyes at the rejection of my greeting, 'I'm sorry...'

Cold fingers cup under my chin and tilt my head upwards so I can meet those amber eyes that always taunt me, make me wish we could go back to the way things used to be when I was a young foolish child. Not anymore.

'I haven't seen you for a while. What are you doing sniffing around here of all places?' He returns the cigarette to his lips, exhaling the smoke slowly so it enters my own nostrils. He offers me the pack, 'Take one.'

'I haven't got time-' but I'm cut off as he places one between my lips and I taste that familiar bitter flavour, 'Thanks…'

He lights it up for me and I take a long puff, savouring what I've been addicted to for so long now, wishing it would never go away. I've tried to give up smoking several times in my life; but depression always gets me back on it. It's been like that ever since I met Pitch really, for he smokes about three a day, probably even more. It's a killer, I know that much but it also soothes my temper and lulls me into a false sense of security for a few sacred minutes.

'North sent you here, didn't he?' Pitch asks and this statement does not surprise me; Pitch often knows what I'm doing, what I'm up to. I sometimes wonder if he pays someone to spy on me or whether he just has a sixth sense that enables him to know what I'm doing every moment of the day.

'He wants me to cover a story for him.'

'Of the heart disease boy? You're nuts, Jackson.'

I shrug, 'I need the money.'

'You do realise this could be the ruin of your career?'

'Don't exaggerate.'

'I'm serious,' the smoke comes through his nose so his overall demeanour resembles something of a fiery dragon, 'You can't put a foot out of line with this sort of thing, Jackson. The media circus is not a forgiving place. They'll chew you up and spit you out. You live by the media, you die by the media. You say one thing out of place and _poof_ – you can kiss your job goodbye.'

'Forever the optimist, aren't you?'

'I'm trying to protect you.'

'I know…'

He watches me and drops the cigarette, stamping it out into the ground. We're suddenly chest to chest (well, more nose to chest due to the contrast in height,) and I look up at him nervously.

'I know you're trying to protect me.'

He lowers his eyes, 'I'm sorry things ended how they did, Jackson.'

'Yeah…' I drop my cigarette also, allowing it to burn into the sidewalk, 'me too.'

We stand awkwardly for a moment, while he fixes the lens on his camera and I adjust my watch across my wrist. I just want to get away from here, focus on the job at hand. But it's impossible to concentrate on anything else with Pitch Black around; like trying to catch water in your hands. I ponder over whether there is a chance I can side step around him now that he is distracted but he fixes the lens and blocks my path again.

'I suppose I won't be seeing you for a while then, Jackson.' His thick British accent makes my bones simmer nervously.

I rub the back of my neck with one hand, fingers curling nervously into my snow white locks, 'I suppose…listen…why don't we have dinner sometime?'

For a moment I've got him stumped and he stares at me blankly. We've been keeping a long distance from each other since we parted ways, but I suppose he's been feeling that urge as well as I have; that urge to be near each other again.

'Let's have dinner and just…talk about things.' My fingers wander near to his hesitantly but to my relief he doesn't pull away.

'Alright…' is his response, 'I look forward to it.'

We both know that we need to be somewhere else; he's got pictures to take and I have a story to write. He leans down in slow motion, obviously wanting to catch my lips but at the last minute I'm too afraid to receive it and I turn my head to the side so his mouth captures my cheek instead. His cold lips stay there a moment, silently caressing my skin until he draws back, slightly disappointed and brings a hand to the spot that he kissed, gently stroking it like a kitten's fur. That bitter emptiness returns when he allows me to pass him and head back towards the house. That empty feeling of loneliness. I've been living in isolation for too long.

I slip past the other photographers before they can see me and when certain that the coast is clear, ring the doorbell; there is no response, though I hear the distant yapping of a dog and the sound of paws scrabbling against wood, sensing my presence. The letterbox suddenly opens and a female voice hisses, 'Get lost.'

I blink and stoop down so I can talk through the box as well, 'Is Henrick Haddock in?'

'He doesn't want an interview-'

'Could you tell him that Jackson Overland is here?'

There's a pause and I hear her yell something behind the door, addressing the other person in the house; moments later keys turn in the lock and she drags me in before I can properly introduce myself. She has one hand hooked around the collar of a giant Alsatian, black in colour with a tail that seems all set to fall off from the amount of wagging it is doing. I'm uncertain as to whether it intends to be aggressive towards me or not; the wagging tail is a comforting sign, but its teeth are bared and ready to bite at the same time, a set of jaws that could easily tear a chunk out of my arm.

'Sorry about that, thought you were one of those nosy fuckers who've been poking there noses around here – Toothless, _please_,' she tugs at the dog's collar when he starts to bark again, obviously bothered by my presence and when she's managed to shut him up she holds out a hand, 'Astrid Hofferson.'

'That's quite alright,' I straighten up, tucking my briefcase tighter under my arm so I can respond to her handshake, 'I'm Jackson Overland-'

'You said.'

'-and I'm here to see Henrick.'

'He's just through here.'

The house is anything but appealing; there's an abundance of junk lying about the place, unused boxes and empty cartons and a few broken dog toys. But what could you expect? Cleaning is probably the last of their worries.

Astrid shows me to the dark, cramped living area and I see him by the window, sitting in one of the armchairs, ankles crossed over one another. He's staring out through the miniscule gap between the curtains, to the wilderness beyond where the predators lay in wait, yearning to catch a glimpse at his face. His expression is blank, much like Pitch's but I detect the smallest hint of fear in his gaze all the same. He's afraid of what lingers out there; he's used to it, but that doesn't tame the anxiety of knowing you are constantly being watched, being under some sort of surveillance. It scares him.

I cough and he becomes sensible to my presence; he turns his body slowly in the chair, puffing at every motion and finally settles down again so we're eye to eye, staring at each other across the room like cats in a stand-off. There's no doubt that he is in poor condition; he _looks_ sick. He's pale, scarily pale and he has great difficulty breathing, if the tube stuck between each nostril is anything to go by. He's dangerously skinny, to the point where it seems unimaginable that he even has the strength to walk.

But at the same time there is this overwhelming beauty about him. His hair is thick, a rich shade of mahogany which adorns the paleness of his skin and gives his face a bit more colour. His eyes, framed by long lashes, are a moss green and seem to light up the whole room despite the darkness contrasted over it. A straight nose, full lips – teeth slightly crooked at the sides but still a picture of splendour. It feels, to me at least, that if he smiled, the world would sigh in adoration. If he laughed, the world would laugh in accompaniment. And if he wept, the whole world would swoop in with their loving arms and try to console him.

'I was beginning to think you were a no show,' he says quietly, as the Alsatian scampers up to flop all his body weight onto his lap. I wince slightly, wondering if it is wise for such a large beast to be sitting on a boy who can hardly breathe independently. But Henrick makes no objection and his fingers lean down to caress the dog's ebony fur, 'Shall we get started?'

I feel myself relaxing when he says this. It suddenly doesn't feel unnatural at all – a bit like answering the telephone to clients back at work, only he's real, here, in the flesh for me to see. Henrick's eyes lower to the dog seated on his lap, his fingers repeatedly brushing through that wild forest of fur while the Alsatian quivers in excitement, tail wagging to and fro like the hands on a clock. Astrid has made herself a cup of tea and is hovering at the doorway of the kitchen, quietly observing the conversation. I have a feeling my presence is not welcome but she never says anything; just stands there, sipping silently. I clear my throat.

'Tell me, Mister Haddock-'

'Hiccup, please.'

I blink at him behind my glasses and I notice a pink blush spread across from one freckled cheek to another.

'Old nickname. It's stupid really, just something my mom called me…whenever I had the hiccups, she would…' he seems to regret starting this thread of conversation and turns red again, 'You don't have to call me that if you don't want-'

'No, no,' I cut in quickly, 'Hiccup's fine…lovely...'

He smiles at me, making me flush also, so I quickly remove my glasses and pretend to wipe them.

'Tell me…Hiccup...let's go from the start. Your childhood perhaps?'

Hiccup – as I now know him – shifts slightly, his grip on the dog getting subtly tighter. I worry in case my question is too intrusive but before I can say anything he wets his lips and speaks, smirking.

'You sound like my psychiatrist.'

'You don't have to answer if you-'

'I know, I know. You're just doing your job.' He seems angry for a moment and all the muscles in his face begin to tense.

I know I have to work drastically before I completely blow this interview before it's even begun, 'Why don't we talk about your condition then? When you were first diagnosed.'

He looks at me with slight suspicion, 'Are you sure you're a journalist?'

'I was the last time I looked.'

'You're too polite.'

'Not all of us are complete bastards. But tell me, Hiccup. When were you first diagnosed?'

He takes a moment to think it over, listening to the dog pant below him and finally responds, 'I was about six, I think. I started to contract Angina, which is when your coronary arteries become partially blocked, resulting in severe chest pain. My parents always assumed it was indigestion or something minor because it usually passed after ten minutes or so. My first heart attack occurred when I was eight years old.'

He says it so calmly, as if it's a completely normal thing to happen to such a young child. I almost drop my pen.

'A _heart attack_?'

'I've had three heart attacks and about two strokes in my life.' Hiccup goes on, 'I've almost died in my sleep before. Once my heart went into acute failure and was too weak to pump blood around my body and I died for almost a minute-'

'You _died_?'

'-for almost a minute. Well, that's what the doctor's said anyway. Managed to pump me back to life somehow.'

'And you were how old?'

'Must have been about fourteen then.'

I feel a ghost of a feeling pass through me, 'that's…awful…'

He watches me with pity – ironic in this situation, as if the tables have suddenly been turned – and that faint smile returns to his lips, 'I've become accustomed to the fact my heart is failing. It isn't something that bothers me. But this surgery is my only chance of living past twenty.'

I shift uneasily in my chair, so unsettled by his calmness to the situation at hand that I almost forget to jot down notes. I avert my gaze to Astrid, who steps forward briefly to change the tube that Hiccup uses to breathe and I cough, 'So, how do _you_ cope with Henrick's illness?'

I notice a slight look of displeasure cross his expression but he doesn't deter me from using his proper title.

'I take every day as it comes,' she replies, replacing the tube, 'It's tough, I'll admit but he needs someone here to help and I'm more than willing to dedicate half my life to caring for him.' She ruffles his dark hair and places a fond kiss into its depths.

'When did you first meet?'

'Astrid was a neighbour of mine,' Hiccup explains when she's returned to the kitchen, 'We've always been close. I suppose us ending up together was inevitable really, we just sort of clicked.'

I feel a twinge of envy at that comment but do my best to mask it; I have no reason to be jealous. No reason to envy their relationship when my own is so fuddled and complex, continuously swinging back and forth like a swing in a children's playground. That's not their fault. I'm glad they have each other. He deserves someone to love and hold in this difficult point in his life.

I'm not jealous. I have no reason to be jealous. No reason whatsoever.

'Yes,' I reply foolishly and a cough escapes again, 'You're...you're very fortunate to have such a devoted girlfriend, Henrick.'

Everyone seems to miss a beat and I hear Astrid choke on the remainders of her tea from the kitchen. Hiccup releases a wheezy laugh that I fear may cause his lungs to burst.

'As beautiful a lady she is, she's not my girlfriend.' He grins at me and his whole face lights up again, 'I'm sorry if we gave you the wrong impression, Mister Overland.'

Astrid seems to find the idea hilarious and she giggles manically, 'Girlfriend! I doubt he'd settle for me even if he did swing that way!'

I feel my face flushing and I look Hiccup in the eye - then look away automatically when I realise my mistake, 'I'm so sorry. I had no idea you were-'

'Queer? Homosexual?' His smile progresses, brighter than ever, 'It's alright to say it. I know not everyone is comfortable with that sort of thing-'

'That's not what I meant at all,' I babble like an idiot, 'I myself am...I mean...'

I want the floor to swallow me up. Trust me to make an ass of myself when trying to create a good first impression. I wonder if it's a good idea to call it a day and make a quick escape but his smile tells me that he doesn't care. He just doesn't care.

'What's his name?' he asks gently.

I scratch the back of my head, 'Well...we're kind of on and off really. Wouldn't officially call him my partner-'

'But you love him?'

'I don't really know...'

He realised he had pushed me out of my comfort zone and the smile faded, 'I'm sorry.'

I correct myself before I break down in tears, 'Don't be. We're here to talk about you. Is there anything else you wished to cover today?'

'I think we're done,' he replies and I take that as my invitation to leave. But as I reach out to gather up my files, he adds, 'Please don't leave straight away. Sit down, have a cup of tea.'

I wonder if there will be anyone to let Sandy into the house to get to his food bowl; my neighbour Jamie sometimes lets him in when I leave the door key under the mat. Mind you, Sandy is capable of handling himself so I wouldn't be surprised if he went stalking around the block to get a meal. Either way, I remain in my chair, while Astrid passes me a steaming cup and the large dog suddenly jolts on Hiccup's lap and hops down to inspect me. I've never really been fond of dogs, for I am more of a cat person, but I hold out my hand for him to sniff and he sticks his wet nose against my palm.

'He'd never hurt you,' Hiccup says, obviously noticing my hesitation, 'Toothless is a service dog. If I'm showing symptoms of a stroke or a heart attack or whatever he'll get help.'

'How long have you had him?'

'Three, maybe four years. He's saved my life on more occasions than one.'

I pull away from the dog a moment to slowly take a sip from my cup, 'Did your parents get him for you?'

This question seems to be a red rag to a raging bull; he sits still all of a sudden and I notice his breathing becomes low and unsteady. His hands clench the material of the chair.

'No.' He says at last, 'It was Astrid's idea. She got him for me.'

So he doesn't get on with his parents. That makes sense as to why he is struggling to get the money for this surgery.

'How does he know when you're about to have an attack?'

'I'm not entirely sure. He just sort of senses my body changing before I do. Quite a miracle, huh?'

'I don't believe in miracles.'

I only realise how awful that sounds as soon as it leaves my mouth but trying to take it back would be like trying to return marmite into its jar. He doesn't seem offended, fortunately, though this statement seems to have set him back a little; as if I've just spat in his face and left a huge wet mark. Of course - a miracle is what he's holding onto right now. How could I be so thick? But I can't lie, I'm not a believer of miracles. Things happen through luck and motivation, not miracles.

'Oh well, each to their own I guess.' He reaches up a hand and scratches behind his ear, 'Are they still out there Astrid?'

Astrid looks between the curtains in the kitchen, 'Yup. Still hovering.'

I swallow my tea in two gulps and set the cup down, 'Well, I think I should be making a move.'

I collect my files and gently maneuver around the dog; strangely, Hiccup looks slightly disappointed at my exit but he still summons the strength to stand and stretch out a hand for me to shake.

'When will our next meeting be, Mister Overland?'

I roll my eyes in thought, 'Anytime next week should suffice? Same time, same place?'

'Same time but perhaps we can meet somewhere more...natural. Are you familiar with the park down the road?'

'I'm not familiar with Berk altogether.'

He smiles, 'It's right around the corner and straight down the lane. Can't miss it.'

'I'll look into it. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mister Haddock.'

He bats his large green eyes at me, his face lovelier than ever, 'Hiccup, please. Call me Hiccup.'


	5. Chapter 5

Sandy is already inside when I arrive home; his food bowl is full but he hasn't touched it and he instantly twines himself around my ankles, mewing, wondering why I'm back so late. My first assumption is that Jamie let himself in and fed him but I notice that someone has hung their coat up on the hook on the wall and a pair of shoes have been placed below them. I know the owner of those clothes.

I lift Sandy in my arms and walk hesitantly into the kitchen, where I find the usual suspect at the stove, placing a lid over a boiling pot.

'Pitch?'

'You're back?' he says without looking at me, 'Good. Table's all set.'

Indeed it is, with an unlit candle placed in the middle. This is so unusual, so unlike Pitch. He really isn't the romantic type, nor is he somebody who randomly turns up at your door uninvited.

'You did all this?' I ask as I set Sandy down on the floor and allow him to scamper towards his food bowl.

'I hope you don't mind; North sent me to drop off some extra files for you and I saw little Sandman here meowing up a storm outside,' he reached down to stroke Sandy with a long, slender finger.

'Thanks...but you know, you could have called me-'

'If I had called you, the element of surprise would have gone to waste.'

I suppose it would be truthful to say that I am surprised. And flattered. Both of those things. I crane my head around to see what's in the pot.

'Pasta?' I raise my eyebrows, 'But you hate Italian.'

'Yes, but _you_ love it.'

I feel myself blush, 'You really didn't have to do this Pitch.'

'But I wanted to. Besides, it was you who offered.'

'I didn't mean today!'

'What better time than this?'

A laugh escaped me, 'You always were one to keep to your word.'

I hover around him like Toothless did around Hiccup, watching his hands as they work at the stove, switching between each steaming pan and boiling pot. When I ask what I can do to help, he gives me one of his sly grins and hands me some cheese to grate.

'How did you get on?' he asks when we have dimmed the lights and two portions of carbonara have been placed on either side of the newly lit candle in the centre of the table.

'Alright, I guess.' I reply hesitantly, poking at my meal with no real intention of putting anything into my mouth just yet, 'Got quite a few notes done so I should be able to start writing up something soon.'

'What was the kid like?'

'He was nice. Very nice.'

'Do you think he was bullshitting you on some parts?'

'No, I really don't.' I manage to get a forkful of pasta and suck it between my teeth, 'I believed every word that came out of his mouth. You know he's had _three_ heart attacks already?'

It's a rarity for Pitch to ever be taken back but now his mouth almost drops open, '_Three_?'

'And he died for a whole minute.'

'Jesus.'

'Poor guy,' I resume in playing with my food, wondering why I feel so on edge, 'You know his dog can sense when he's about to have a stroke? It barks like a mad thing and gets help.'

'I've heard of those service dogs. I can never understand how they do it.'

'I have a feeling he's not telling me everything though.'

'Yes, well, they tend not to.'

'He got all shady when I mentioned his childhood.'

'Past abuse most likely.'

'Maybe...I might be able to get something out of him as we progress.'

'That's the ticket. Get close to him. Make him trust you,' I can sense the sarcasm dripping in Pitch's voice, 'Always works out well.'

'That's not what I meant.'

'Good. Because that would only end in tears.'

'I would never do that-'

'Are you sure of that, Jackson? I know people would do anything these days for extra pay.'

'I wouldn't-!' but then I see the upcoming smirk on his face and realise he's having me on. I sink back in my seat, my face hot with embarrassment as he quietly chuckles.

'Teasing, Jackson, only teasing,' but then his face contorts into a serious expression and he reaches over to take my hand, 'I know you would never do that. You're too good for that. But just promise me you'll be careful, Jackson. The last thing I want is you getting yourself in trouble.'

We eat in silence for a while, listening to metal scrape against the china plates while Sandy grooms himself in the background and then settles himself under the table, on alert for any scraps that may fall into his path. He's a timid little guy, the complete opposite of the dog Toothless; his eyes are large and amber, with sandy coloured fur and a long, blossoming tail that always tickles my neck whenever he's being affectionate. He's a quiet little cat that very rarely makes any noise. He's one of the only things that's been keeping me sane these past few years.

I realise my plate is empty, yet don't recall eating everything. Perhaps I really am going crazy; being stuck in this apartment has turned me bonkers. Pitch's plate is semi-full, due to his tepid opinion on Italian food. He flashes me one of his concerned smiles.

'Was the food good?'

'It was lovely, thank you,' I reply, setting my knife and fork aside, 'You haven't lost your spark.'

'I've been taking lessons.'

'Really?'

'I have nothing else to do in my spare time.'

I glance at him nervously, my thumbs twiddling together like a child that's about to tell a lie, 'I'm...I'm sorry things went South between us...I never wanted-'

'It's not your fault. It was me. I was never there.'

'You had a job to do-'

'And I put it before you. I spent more time there when really I should have been here,' he reaches for the wine and pops open the cork, pouring himself a large glass, 'I have a habit of messing things up for myself.'

'Pitch...'

'Never know a good thing when I have it.'

'Pitch, stop it.'

'What kind of person does that, puts their job before their heart? What sort of person would throw everything for the sake of their career. It just doesn't make sense to me. Why someone who has a great partner, a great life, would throw it all away for the sake of some extra income. The truth of the matter is, you deserve better Jackson. You deserve someone who has the time for you, who'll look after you. Someone reliable-'

I can't stand hearing him talk like that. It's wrong of me to do this, I know. But I just want him to stop talking.

I seize his face from across the table and our lips surrender to a kiss. It's not how it used to be; there's no warmth, no fluttering of the heart, nothing surreal about it. Just a kiss.

But it works.

Pitch stops talking.

We remain that way for a long while, as my mouth gently caresses his cold one, trying to be a comfort. I don't know what I'm doing, what I'm playing at but I can't stop myself. I'm tired of being lonely. I'm tired of holding back to temptation. I just want to feel loved. To be held again, just to be held.

I break away and he gasps for air, a long shuddery breath that makes my spine tingle. I've started something now and there is no going back; our lips find each other again and we return to our passion, as he guides me down the hall to where my bedroom and my single bed lie in wait.

It's not right, none of it is. But that doesn't stop me from wanting it.

I allow him to lay me down against the heat of the mattress, gently peel my clothes off and begin to explore my delicate body; the same fingertips he used to nurture Sandy now gently caressing my own snow white skin, making me moan and whimper his name.

And then he takes my hips with the greatest of care and for the next hour or so we just lie there, moving together in our own sweetness, feeling him push in and out of me like he used to do in our glory days, back when we were young and foolish and the world was nowhere near as somber and terrifying as it is now.


	6. Chapter 6

Hiccup and I meet in the spot he had requested - on the bank beneath a large oak that stretches out its long branches over our heads as if protecting us from the rest of the world, overlooking the sparkling lake that spreads from one side of the park to the other.

Night-Fury Park, as the sign called it, is like a haven of safety. You feel at home as soon as you walk through those thick, wrought-iron gates which lead to a pathway of gravel, stretching out like a snow-white ribbon that meanders through fields of verdant shrubbery and the beds of soil where lay flowers of all colour and fragrance. The lush vegetation of the many trees which stand tall in crowning glory with their welcoming shade and their friendly arms; the jungle of plants inhabited by the creatures of the woodland, those that run and shriek and scurry among the dirt and earth.

You savour the freshness of the place, the sweet perfume of the oxygenated air that relaxes you, heals your aching bones and every tense muscle that puts you ill at ease.

I find him sitting in the said spot by the lake with Toothless on his harness, throwing breadcrumbs to the ducklings that are finding their feet on the water's edge; the dog notices me before he does but he does not turn, for he has the attention of one of the ducklings and willingly ignores the sign that deters one from touching the animals as his fingers caress the bouncing baby bird. I suppose when your life is on a thin wire, you don't have time to abide to rules.

'You're a rose, Mister Overland,' he says out of the blue, before I even have time to take out my notebook and pen, 'You're just like a rose, a beautiful charming rose.'

I am nothing like a rose, in form or personality but I'm flattered by the compliment, 'I'm not too sure of that.'

I wonder what triggered such a comment but he seems in too good a spirit to question. He forgets about the ducklings and sits on the dirt, adjusting the tube in his nose and crossing his legs together while I fiddle in my bag for the necessary equipment used for writing while Toothless circles my heels in curiosity.

'What do you want from me today?' Hiccup asks in a purr.

'Whatever you're willing to say,' I reply when I've fished out my book, 'You talk, I listen.'

What passes between us for the next hour and a half is something between mind numbing chit chat and dubious conversation, while the large dog wedges himself in between us and his giant head flops against the ground. Hiccup doesn't really seem in the mood for talking about himself, for every minute or so he interrupts my questions to ask me about my new life as a correspondent and all my complex love affairs. At one point he asks me who my parents were and when I reply that I was adopted as a baby his expression falls into a serious trance and he stares at me as if he can see right through my skin, through all that muscle and bone to my body's core.

At some point, I remove my glasses to clean them and he tilts his head slightly, watching me with that ever elegant gaze that shines like a thousand lights. I wonder how he is able to put so much grace into every movement; it's as if he plans it all out beforehand and then his body slowly advances in a rhythmic pattern to please me. He looks at me as if I'm the most important person on Earth. It's been a while since I've been made to experience that; I haven't even felt that way with Pitch five inches inside me.

'I'd like to have a baby.'

I'm snapped out of my current mindset and I peer at him in perplexity, still unsure of what has brought on this sudden animated mood swing, 'I can understand that.'

'I don't really know why. I mean, I know it'll be tricky without a woman involved but of course there's such thing as adoption...' his eyes flicker up to meet my own, in case he's lost my attention, 'Wouldn't you like a baby?'

'My partner isn't too keen on children,' is my response, which doesn't count as dishonest for I really have no knowledge of Pitch's attitude towards kids. He doesn't _hate_ them, I know that but he's never had a desire for any offspring as much as I have. I share Hiccup's want for sentimental companionship; I would kill for a child at this moment in time, though sanity often kicks in and reminds me that I would never be able to afford one. Children are expensive and though I would willingly trade my career for a little bundle of joy, I know I'll need to stabilise my life before I even consider raising a child. For one thing, I'm not even certain that Pitch and I are officially back on, though last night seemed a bit of a wake up call.

'Astrid has a baby.'

'Does she?'

'She's two years old. You ought to see her.'

'I'd like to. Does her daughter live with her?'

'No, she's with her dad. They're separated now.'

'Oh, right...'

He quickly becomes desolate and his cheeks heat up with ripe mortification as he makes sense of his rambled speech. I think he is as unaware as I am as to why he is suddenly so eccentric, so out of the ordinary. His breath hitches sharply and he adjusts his breathing tube.

'Children don't care,' he goes on, 'when they're little, they don't care who you are. They don't care if your eyes don't work or your face is the wrong shape. They love you because you're _you_.'

He looks out towards the lake again, with Toothless curled up beside him and for a moment I wonder if he is near to weeping just for the sake of it.

'I want to tell you a story,' he goes on, 'Do you want to hear it?'

'Very much so.'

His hand reaches down and gently touches the tip of the dog's ear; only the tip and nothing else, as if it's as delicate as a feather.

'I was a wicked child, Mister Overland-'

And at this point I interrupt him with the words, 'Please, call me Jack.'

'Right..._Jack_...' his musters a pleased smile, '...I was a wicked child, a truly wicked child. When I was angry I would tear up the curtains in my parent's room, I'd tear up my books, I'd paint mud on the walls, simply because I knew I could get away with it' he laughs and I can sense those fond memories swimming around his skull, 'I drove my mother wild at times. And she always let me do it because I had a heart condition. I was _allowed_ to do it because I had a terminal illness. I was thirteen years old and I thought I could do whatever the hell I wanted because the world owed me something, it owed me because it had given me this damn illness in the first place.'

He breaks off a moment to pause for breath; monologues seem to be a chore for him, 'After my father left he got joint custody of me, though he rarely used it because he didn't want to be there. I was thirteen and I hadn't seen him in almost two years, _two_ years. And then all of a sudden I'm over at his house for God knows what reason. For some unknown rationale he wants me over there away from my mom and I have no idea why. All I know is that I want to be somewhere else. So I get into a mood and do what I usually do. I tear up the couch in the living room with a pair of scissors so it looks like it's been in contact with a tiger pack and then take all the stuffing out and throw it around the room.'

"Imaginative" is the only word I can think of to describe such an action.

'And then my dad walks in while I'm playing with the stuff from inside the wretched piece of furniture and he gives me this look, this really weird look that no one has ever given me before. And before I know it my feet have left the ground, my gut is pressing into his knees and he's lowering my pants down to my ankles. And he tells me, '_Henrick, you did a bad thing. I'm not your mother and you can't use your condition against me. You think you can do whatever you please because this has happened to you but remember that the world doesn't owe you anything. No one owes you a dime.' _And then for the first time in my life, my father spanks me. And during this spanking I'm just a normal kid - I'm not the kid with heart disease, I'm just a normal, badly behaved child getting his bottom smacked for misbehaving. For being a disobedient, disrespectful little fuck...'

He notices my hands as they clench and unclench continuously, 'And you know something Jack? He was right. The world doesn't owe me anything. I was thirteen years old and I realised that I needed to stop sitting around, crying about how terrible my life was. He was right; nobody owes me a dime. My father has been absent for most of my life but he actually saw me as a normal person, not a freak with heart disease who needs special attention, who people need to make "allowances" for. That's one thing I can respect him for, letting me know that I'm a human being like everyone else.'

I forget about my notebook; I don't need to write anything down. My hearing is the only tool I need. Toothless grows restless and begins to pad along the bank again, dipping his nose into the water and then shaking his head about so small droplets spray everywhere. Hiccup is looking at me again, his arms hugging his knees.

'I haven't seen my father since then,' his voice is hardly there, 'He never asked for me to go over again. I figure he wants nothing to do with me, since he knows what a selfish brat I can be.'

'What became of your mother?'

He shakes his head at me hastily, 'I'm not ready to tell you. Please Jack, don't make me tell you.'

'You don't have to tell me anything,' I reply with great care, 'Only what you're comfortable with. I apologise, I won't ask again.'

I'm uncertain as to whether he believes me or not but his voice perks up slightly, 'Thank you, Jack.'

I rest my glasses on top of my head and realise that I've been sitting in the same position for too long; the bones in my legs ache and I have to stretch out like a cat in order to lessen the pain that has gripped all my muscles.

'Did your parents ever spank you Jack?'

'No, never.'

He grins at me and his eyes gleam with mischievous intent, 'I'm surprised really. I can imagine you being a naughty little child in much need of a spank.'

'Of course I was naughty. But I rarely vented my anger. I would put my feelings down on paper, write mock articles, methods like that.' I moisten my lips for a moment in regards to his question, 'I have been physically punished before though. Just not as a child...'

His head cocks in questioning but he works out the meaning behind this message before I have to elaborate for him, 'Oh I see...' and it's obvious he is resisting the pending urge to release laughter, 'Is it _your_ fetish or your boyfriend's?'

I feel a bit wrong footed with this question and the blood swims into my cheeks at that faded recollection of lying at attention over a pair of knees, naked, as cool hands caress the pain away from my throbbing rear and then move down to hold that sensitive part of my body and gently squeeze.

He senses my embarrassment and his face falls, 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be impolite-'

'It's fine. After all, I'm muscling into your personal business for the next six months. I'm the one who's prying.'

'Yes but you get paid to be nosy.'

I snort unattractively but it seems to earn an equally distasteful grunt from him also and soon we're laughing just for the sake of hearing laughter. My cell phone is the only thing that can distract me from our merry banter.

'Your partner?' He asks when he sees my change in expression, his eyes becoming large and dark.

'My boss,' I correct.

'What does he want?'

I contemplate telling him but it doesn't seem the appropriate time, 'Nothing important,' and I stuff the miserable piece of technology back where it belongs, 'It can wait.'

He evidently doesn't believe me but neither does he push for the truth. He seems content enough sitting where he is, talking mindless drivel. To be honest, I feel exactly the same way.

Out of what I can only assume to be boredom, he reaches out and picks up a pebble to skip across the surface of the water.

'Are you going to put it in your article?'

'Put what?'

'That story I told you. Will you add it?'

'Only if you want me to.'

He pauses in thought, 'I do...I want people to hear the same message I heard. I want them to understand the same things I understand. I just want to help.'

'Then I'll include it.'

His eyes bat handsomely, an obvious trait I've noticed in him when he's around me and he shyly folds a lock of hair behind his ear, 'I'm looking forward to spending more time together Mister Overland.'


	7. Chapter 7

Mr North had given me a deadline for my paper.

It's far off and I know I have plenty of time to get it completed. But at the same time I feel a great sense of dread. I need to get something written. Otherwise my idleness will get the better of me, the months will fly past and all of a sudden I'll find myself typing like a madman the night before the damn article is due in.

I'm too restless to work. I slope around the house with my notebook on a blank page, trying to gather inspiration from my surroundings, but the chairs and the blinds offer little in starting a paragraph about a heart disease victim's tragic childhood. I go through various mood swings, determined to write at one point and too lazy to scrawl down a letter the next. I discover Pitch in the living room, sitting in the armchair we shared with Sandy curled around his ankles and crawl onto his lap. I put my arms around his neck, tenderly kiss his lips and I tell him I want to go to bed with him.

He says no.

So I ask again.

He says I need to work.

So I ask for sex a third time and he tells me if I don't get to work, his hand will be making an acquaintance with my backside.

I stop asking.

Around about lunchtime I finally summon the willpower to write my first draft. Baby steps will be the best approach to starting my introduction, rather than leaping head first into mindless scripting that turns out to be mindless crap. I look over my notes in case any of them jog the little men working in my brain and get them functioning properly.

**Notes on Henrick**

**.** _Six years old when father left, three days before Christmas_

**.** _Mother - alcoholic, depressed_

**.** _Behavioural problems began in early adolescence _

**. **_Family issues arose in the months after his father left_

**. **_Joint custody, father only used it once _

I focus on the subject of winter; that very winter, three days before Christmas when Hiccup's father walked out and all their problems boiled over like a proverbial pot.

I need a title that will catch the public's eye. Something tasteful. Something melancholy, that will tell the audience that Hiccup is a fighter. That the winter in which his father left is now in the past and he is focusing on nothing but the hopeful future.

I separate mind from body and my hand works without me thinking about it.

**The Winter of our Discontent **

_One boy's incredible journey in hope of a new heart_


	8. Chapter 8

Hiccup wanted our next meeting to be in a more floral setting than Night-Fury Park. After we had properly exchanged phone numbers, he would repeatedly mention the Dream Gardens that were located on the border between Berk and Burgess City, comprised of over one hundred hectares of gardens and botanical glasshouses. I recall Pitch once telling me that when you walk through those gardens, it feels like you have walked through it a hundred times.

I now understand his statement. This place appears to have sprung from the dirt and will be eternally young even after everything has died around it. Hiccup never comments on the flowers; he never comments on anything but keeps a solid hold around my arm as if I am his escort and he is the damsel in need of being escorted. I don't think anything of it, even though I should, I really should.

He takes a negligible interest in the roses on display, spread out in those thick jade bushes, entwining themselves around each other; an array of blood red, majestic and beautiful with glory. But I wondered how they would seem when the cold set in; if they would become savage and bitter and droop into nothing. I wonder if they will become neglected, dead among the ferns, unwanted.

'My mother took me here once,' Hiccup says almost inaudibly, 'Before we lost all our money.'

'What happened?'

'Our benefits were cut,' he exhales slowly, slipping his arm from mine a moment to gently touch one of the roses, 'We were in a big enough slump already but after that we were penniless.'

'Couldn't your dad have...?' but he sends me a sullen glare that makes me feel like I'm walking on cracked glass and my lips seal immediately.

'Astrid wants you over for dinner,' he says suddenly, turning the subject.

'She wants _me_?' I ask foolishly, as he goes back to caressing the flowers, 'Why?'

'She wants to get to know you, we all do.'

'All do?'

'She and her new partner that is.'

'She has a new partner?'

'Of course,' but he seems to find it slightly unbelievable himself, 'They've only been on for a year or so.'

'But she's very young to-'

His laughter cuts me off, 'It wasn't her idea. Her parents deemed it the appropriate thing to do after she separated from her previous boyfriend; they figured she needed a father figure for her daughter you know?'

'Who's her new partner?'

His eyes mist with darkness for a moment, 'His name is Sidmouth. Sidmouth Jorgenson.'

My eyes open in a flurry, 'Never! Sidmouth Jorgenson! Astrid's got with a _Jorgenson_?'

'You know him?'

'We went to school together,' I chuckle at the memory of the days of my early education, putting gum on teacher's chair, playing hooky, bringing vodka in mixed with soda water and smoking behind the bleachers, 'I thought everyone knew about the Jorgensons.'

'Of course they do. He's minted,' Hiccup mutters, 'Mind you, Astrid always did have collected tastes.'

'So she lives with him then?'

'Only on weekends. She prefers her own house.'

'Do they get along well enough?' I ask with caution.

His response is swift, 'Of course they don't. He's a horrible, bitter man and she deserves so much better.'

'Then why doesn't she leave him?'

'Because...I don't know why. I suppose she needs the money.'

'Yeah, I suppose.'

'For the baby.'

'Yes, for the baby.'

We find a bench to sit on and with some reluctance he slips his arm out from mine as he sits; he adjusts his tube slightly, as if it's irritating him and then looks at me again, 'She would like you over for dinner. She says if we're to be spending the next few months together, we may as well make better acquaintance.'

'I'll be glad to come.'

'I have another story. Do you want to hear it?'

'Do tell me.'

My hand scrawls across the lined paper beneath me as he speaks, to the point where it is potentially impossible to read by the speed I am writing out. My handwriting is absurd, if you can describe handwriting as such. Like crazy black clouds on a page.

'I remember my first heart attack,' he says, 'I was about seven...maybe eight but I'm sure I was seven. I was playing with my mother vintage tea set in the garden and I suddenly felt this faint pain in my arm. It was dull to begin with but then became sharp and I was unable to move the right side of my body. I went inside to tell my mother and before I knew it I felt like someone was pounding at the inside of my chest. Everything just tensed up and went numb. And next thing I knew I was in a hospital bed with every sort of tube you could imagine sticking into my skin.'

'Was that the time you died?'

'No, that was later. I was fourteen.'

'How did it feel?'

'Well...I drifted off sort of. As if I was falling asleep. And then it felt warm, like floating on a large bubble of air. It was the nicest feeling in the world. And you know something? I didn't want it to end. I wanted to stay on that bubble, floating for all eternity. And then it went cold and I returned to the light. Next thing I know they're there, the surgeons, pounding away at me, trying to get the life back into my body.'

'So you preferred it? Being dead?'

'Well, it was warm.'

'That's amazing.'

'What, dying?'

'Yes. It's amazing that you know how it feels.'

'I'm not scared of it anymore. Now I know how peaceful it is...I'm not scared.'

I stop writing a moment to draw out a cigarette and put it between my lips. But as my fingers reach for a lighter, I notice a poignant look of disbelief cross his visage.

'You smoke?'

The smoke leaves my mouth and I glance at him, face reddening slightly with discomfort, 'Yes, I...I've tried to stop.'

'My mother smoked.'

'Did she?'

'She smoked five a day. Sometimes she would burn out the stubs on her own hands.'

A wave of sickness passes through me and I discard the cigarette into the nearest trash can as soon as I'm finished with it.

'So will you come on Friday?'

'Where?'

'To Astrid's.'

'Of course I will.'

'Will you bring your work with you?'

'I'd rather not. I mean, I'd rather the evening not be focused on such morbidity.'

'Knowing Sidmouth he'll probably turn it morbid with what comes out of his mouth.'

'You know what we used to call him in school?'

He looks at me curiously, 'What did you call him?'

'Snotlout.'

He responds with a high pitched, chortling laugh that resembles something of a graceful hyena, 'Snoutlout, ha, Snotlout!'

'Never did get round to using a handkerchief.'

That familiar mischievous smile returns to his face, 'I enjoy your company Jack. You're not like everyone else. You're an absolute charm. You could make flowers grow with your talking.'


	9. Chapter 9

Across the river, almost ten miles away from my apartment in Burgess, the Jorgenson household stands in solitary splendour beside the glittering water and I have yet to realise that the night I drive over to have dinner with Hiccup and my new companions, will mark the night that the two of us form an unbreakable bond.

Sidmouth Jorgenson, a buff, solid creature who is more intimidating than he is wise, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at _Burgess Academy for Boys_ — a bullying figure in a way, who earned his respect and status through terrorising others. His family are enormously wealthy; though rumour has it that most of the wealth is distributed down from grandparents and he merely feeds off them like a sucking leech — but in whatever way he got his money, it is hard to comprehend that a man of my own generation has enough wealth to purchase half the population of Berk itself.

Why they live in such isolation from the rest of the world is a great puzzle to me. I can now understand why Astrid is so eager to return to her home in Berk, where despite the poverty, there are at least a few friendly faces to gaze upon. According to Hiccup, the two of them had been brooding over the decision of moving to France but as I recall him stating, he just couldn't imagine Snotlout going through all that paperwork. It seemed this was their final destination but I wasn't wholly convinced — from what I knew of Sidmouth Jorgenson, he was a free spirit, always moving around looking for the next opportunity. I could never imagine him ever settling down.

I reach the Jorgenson household almost half an hour after I was expected to arrive. It is even more elaborate than I expected; a giant, mystical Victorian-style mansion that seems a hundred years out of date but still dazzling to the human eye, overlooking the cerulean river ahead. Sidmouth Jorgenson is standing smoking on the porch but when he notices me he stubs the cigarette out and comes jogging down the steps.

"Snotlout" Jorgenson hasn't changed a bit; he has the same cruel, dominating body, arrogant eyes and that thick voice that lacks any sort of empathy.

'Frost!' He barks as soon as I'm within reaching distance and before I can even offer a hand to shake, I'm caught in a solid, inescapable hug that takes all my breath away, 'Long time no see buddy!'

He's not my buddy. Not as long as I breathe. But I say nothing to condemn his statement.

'Good to see you Sid,' I say through my teeth, though my only desire is to be put back down.

'The other two are in the lounge,' he says and sets me on the floor again, 'Chef has dinner going. You like venison?'

He leads me through the winding hallways, past the portraits with solemn faces lined together like a structured army along the wall until we reach the lounge, whereupon we find Astrid and Hiccup frolicking and giggling about on the giant couch by the windows like two little children in the middle of minor snowfall.

Astrid is beautiful. I only just realise it properly when I look into the depths of her cerulean eyes and see what a deep and meaningful character she really is; when she sees me she remains completely motionless, though the corners of her mouth stretch upwards slightly, but she makes no sort of greeting or attempt at standing up. She just tells me with her eyes of how glad she is of my presence. She is odd, like Hiccup but so very, very beautiful.

Hiccup catches my attention and I notice that Toothless is not with him; I quiz him on this subject and he tells me Toothless didn't want to come. I am aware he is foolishly putting his life at risk by leaving the dog at home but he assures me that Toothless' presence is only vitally required when he is travelling alone and that Astrid has become something of a sensor dog anyway. This comment earns him a playful swat from the blonde woman. I attempt to apologise for my tardiness but she has none of it.

'It's best to be fashionably late,' she says with a faint smirk on her pretty pink lips, 'Come, dinner should be ready about now. I'll name the pictures on the way out.'

She stands and her long, flowing dress follows her, boldly white in colour and ruffled at the bottom so it moves equally in time with her perfectly shaped ankles. Hiccup takes my arm again, his little black suit almost hanging off his sunken frame but making his timid face and large green eyes more gorgeous and elegant than ever.

Once I have been given a history lesson of about every Jorgenson in their damned family tree, dinner is announced and we take our seats in the conservatory overlooking the desolate scenery beneath, to the sleeping fields and the river that never stops flowing even through the dreary night. Astrid immediately brings up the topic of my career and I seem to stammer on for hours while Sidmouth leans forward with mock interest and Hiccup gazes at me from my right side, not listening, just staring at my face as if I am the only one in the room existing at this moment in time.

Then Astrid asks me about the article and I stammer on about that as well, about how I intend to have my first draft finished the upcoming week, which is a great sickening lie.

'Sounds exciting,' she says with genuine amazement, 'I never was good at writing. I was more of a...of a...' she abandons this sentence and adds very irrelevantly, 'you ought to see the baby.'

I glance at Hiccup and he raises his eyebrows in a bored motion, his eyes rolling slightly as he takes a hasty sip of wine. Their daughter seems to be a reoccurring distraction from the gap in their relationship.

'I would love to see her,' I reply.

'She's a beautiful little girl. Just turned two. You know she has my eyes?'

'What's her name?'

'Daisy.'

'A beautiful name.'

'It was John's idea to call her Daisy,' she turns to Hiccup, 'Have I ever told you about John-?'

Sidmouth, who had previously been sitting quietly listening to my rambling, suddenly pops the cork on another bottle of wine, 'Top up, Jack?'

I accept and feel the tip of Hiccup's shoe scuff my shin below the table. He's been restless since we sat down to eat and this is his first attempt to gain my attention. He knows something is about to happen.

Halfway through dinner, Sidmouth's phone announces the arrival of a text and he briefly excuses himself from the table to answer it. He makes no attempt to return in haste and Astrid's entire demeanour changes; she slopes forward against the table while Hiccup adjusts his tube in order to get the wine glass more firmly against his lips and stares at me with her warm, glowing eyes.

'You seem like a decent guy Jack,' she says delicately but I detect the steel reckoning behind her tone, 'I know you'd never screw anyone around,' her eyes swivel to Hiccup momentarily, 'Hic's lucky to have you.'

The said person loses concentration and ends up sending his drink the wrong way but Astrid hardly notices. She's transfixed on the silhouette by the doorway, those frantic fingers texting away. When I realise she is going to do nothing to aid Hiccup in his choking, I promptly pat him on the back as she rises from the table, flinging her handkerchief down and marching into the hallway to investigate her partner's disappearance. Hiccup stops coughing and stares at them through the closed doors, listening to the hurried voices trapped behind.

'Who's John?' I ask, trying to break the ice as a stony silence hits the two of us.

'Astrid's ex-partner,' Hiccup replies without looking at me, 'Daisy's father.'

'Why would she-?'

'Sid's got some woman in Burgess,' Hiccup cuts in dryly.

I glance at him, wondering if he is serious, 'He does?'

'She's horrible I hear,' his tone remains defiantly blank, 'A horrible scruff of a woman.'

'Does Astrid know?'

'Of course she does. Everyone knows.'

'But why?'

'I told you, he's an evil man.'

Needless to say, the mood is melancholy when the couple finally return to the table, Astrid with her face blotched pink and Sidmouth uncharacteristically hospitable with the wine. I can see Hiccup itching to flee the table but he never does; he remains there with his knee brushed ever so gently near to mine, nudging it every now and again whenever a topic arises that agitates him fiercely.

He insists we take a walk around the ornamental gardens as soon as supper is done; he hastily links his arm through mine and drags me out with a strength I had no idea his frail body could possess. He wants away from the two of them, out of disgust as I can only presume. He takes me down near the river where the angel fountains are, with the little cherubs and their bows drawn to shoot a stone arrow into the silvery night; as soon as he is near it he falls to his knees, puts both hands over his face and weeps with some severity. I watch him, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, until my conscience deems it only right to stoop down and lay an offer of consolation on his shoulder.

'Henrick?' I ask quietly, and then disregard formalities and add, 'Hiccup? What's the matter?'

He misreads my comforting gesture as something more; suddenly I have both his arms around my neck and the front of my silk shirt is being dramatically soaked with his tears.

'She doesn't deserve it,' his voice comes out in a pathetic hiss, 'She doesn't deserve any of it. Why does she let him do it Jack? Why does she let him be so cruel to her?'

I'm too bemused to reply; my hands fly up in a defensive stance as soon as he touches me and I have no idea where I stand. I know my job is not to get emotionally involved but there's something about Henrick Haddock that makes every muscle in my body ache with compassion. I slowly wind my arms around his shivering frame and hold him closer.

'Hush, Henrick, you'll make yourself sick,' I murmur quietly, wondering if this is really the wisest decision to make.

'I'm always sick,' he burbles, 'I'm tired of being sick, that's all I am! Sick, sick, sick!'

'Sssh,' I soothe and I pull away to take his hands in my own, 'Listen to me Henrick - listen.'

He sucks the air in through his teeth and musters up some strength to look at me, his eyes a dark orb of betrayal and injustice.

'I can't change their life,' I say in a whisper, 'But I can change yours. And I promise I will get you what you need. I'll make you better Hiccup. I promise you.'

That imminent gaze returns with a raging force and he lingers so close to my face I wonder - I _know_ he's going to kiss me. I stand before he has the chance and offer my hands out again; chilled and perhaps a little disappointed, he accepts and takes them in his own again, allowing me to pull him to his feet. We've sealed the bond between us and I realise there is no going back now; I have made my pledge and I intend to keep it.

I watch Henrick Haddock, as his arm slips limply through my own and I gently guide him back to the house in the distance, to the two figures waiting for us on the porch to continue the evening with a game of _Parcheesi_ and After Eight mints and the flurry of façade and entertainment that awaits us in the glistening, unpredictable night.


	10. Chapter 10

**THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT **

_One boy's incredible journey in hope of a new heart_

_FIRST DRAFT _

_Life has obstacles. We all know that. Some obstacles are easier to overcome than others. Some you can just step over and continue walking the path of life, leaving it in the past. But others create a barrier, a long thick wall that you are unable to overcome without the support of others. But even the largest walls, made of the thickest stone can be brought tumbling down with determination and strength._

_Henrick Haddock, a seventeen year old who is one of many in the small population of Berk, has been faced with such obstacles. At just six he was diagnosed with coronary heart failure, a terminal disease which effects the coronary arteries, leading to failure of the heart. In a final bid for survival, he allows Burgess Enterprise access into his private world, from his difficult childhood to his struggle against the illness which is slowly taking his life._

_When Henrick was a child, he knew he stood out from the others. Day after day of hospital visits, scans and minor surgeries were something he knew the average six year old did not usually go through. It was only when he was eight years old that he realised the impact his condition had on his life - he suffered a cardiac arrest while playing in his childhood home and narrowly escaped death. Since the incident, Henrick has had three heart attacks, two strokes and even died for a whole minute after suffering cardiac failure. These events would ultimately change his life forever and turn it into a never ending spiral of medication and surgeries. A poor home life resulted in gaps between family members and Henrick soon had to cope with the pressures of his parent's separation on top of dealing with his condition. _

_But despite all he's been through, Henrick remains a bold, colourful and optimistic individual, who wishes only to live life to the full. He refuses, above anything, to allow his illness to get in the way of leading a normal life._

_'**My father once said to me**,' he tells me as we sit together by the lake in the park, the usual playing spot when he was a child, '**He told me that the world didn't owe me anything. No one owes me a dime. You need to stop lying around, crying about how horrible your life is and just get out there and** **live**.'_

_His strength baffles me. A child with the weight of the world on his shoulders who is able to push misfortunes aside and carry on living amongst others. His spirit and determination sets an example to all victims of heart disease out there; that there is a solution, there is an answer and all hope is not lost. In the months that I have spent with Henrick, I have learnt a valuable lesson. That it's not about heart disease; it's about a person overcoming what life throws at them and living it to the fullest, the way each and every one of us is supposed to. _

_Now seventeen years of age, Henrick is determined to defeat the disease that is slowly killing him. His life on the line, his only chance of survival is coronary bypass surgery, which he'll only be able to afford through the help of donations. He relies only on the generosity of the public. __I hope that they will be as touched by his story as I am and find a place in their heart to give what they can._

**Jackson Overland Frost**

**Writer for _Burgess Enterprise _**


	11. Chapter 11

'I have to say Frost, not bad. Not bad at all.'

I glance at Aster Bunnymund with great distrust, never certain whether his tone is genuine or leaking with great sarcasm.

'Really?'

'Course mate. It's a good read, really tugs at those heartstrings,' he hands me back the paper in his hands, 'Though of course, I probably could have written it a lot better.'

'Stick to the sports, Bunny,' I scoff at him, ducking as he makes a swipe at me with his large hand at the mention of his infamous nickname, 'So, you really think it's good enough for publishing?'

'Course it is. But whether Mr North will think so or not is a different story.'

'How do you mean?'

His eyes dart around the office in search of eavesdroppers, that or the big man himself listening in, but when he's certain that everyone's out of earshot he mumbles on singe hurried breath, 'He isn't an easy man to please Frost.'

'He isn't?'

'He wants news. That's all. And this article of yours may not be..._intriguing_ enough.'

I'm astounded to say the least; I was throwing up every intriguing word I could think of when writing that damned article, 'Why?'

'Blimey, all these questions!' he hisses, still paranoid of the office around him, 'Look mate, I aint an encyclopedia when it comes to this sorta thing but what I do know is that Mr North isn't going to be interested in facts. He wants...you know, a little drama in there. Something to shock the audience, ya know?'

I stare at him, my eyes wide with vacant disbelief, 'This is a kid's _life_ we're talking about here, not some soap opera!'

'Unfortunately, soap opera is what sells us papers.'

I growl, a hoarse noise that comes out without me wanting it to, 'I'm still showing this to him. Maybe he'll change his mind when he sees it.'

'I sincerely doubt it mate.'

That sinking feeling of failure begins to loosen up my gut and I suddenly want to be alone; but Aster catches my arm before I have a chance to slink away into the dozens of people once more and wallow in my own self pity.

'If it's any consolation Frost, I think you did an excellent job.'

I know you usually have to sing like a canary bird in order to fish a compliment from Aster Bunnymund, so I consider myself a very lucky individual. I have this sudden urge to latch onto him and I do so with great velocity, almost knocking the tall man over. I wonder if I'll end up being slung through an office window for my lack of respect for the career consequences of embracing a fellow colleague but Aster, though I hear him mutter something about both our heads being on the line if anyone reports this, tugs me closer and for a few split seconds I feel his bristly cheek burrow into my hair.

'What are we going to do with you, Frost? What are we going to do?' He says like a father does to his troublesome son.

It's a strange relationship we have, Bunnymund and I. Usually we can't stand being around each other; we snap and gripe continuously until one of us either storms off or Ana comes to break it up. But in these rare times, when I'm stressed from work or when I was feeling tearful on my first day, he'll offer a comforting pat on the back, a playful ruffle of the hair and in this case right now, a full on bear hug. I think, I dare say it, that Aster Bunnymund does care greatly about me. Sort of the way the elder brother looks out for the younger. Most of the time I really get on his tits; other times, he just worries constantly for my safety.

I sigh, sagging a little in his hold, 'I just want people to believe in me, Bunny.'

He pushes me away but not out of his arms, as two course hands clamp on each of my shoulders and he looks me straight in the eye, 'We do believe in you, Frost. We know you'll do everything you can to help this boy. But you have to remember that you've got a job to do. Henrick Haddock is nothing more to you than a way to get a few extra dollars on your pay check. That's the way it's gotta be.'

'He's my friend...' I begin but immediately realise those words are forbidden. Aster shakes his head at me, reaching over to briefly pat my shoulder.

'I know,' he mutters, so quietly I barely hear him, 'But you know it can't last. Once these six months are over and done with, you'll have nothing to do with him. Please, Frost. Don't get yourself caught up in a game that you have no chance at winning.'

I'm suddenly impatient to leave. I slip out of Aster's firm hold and make a steady retreat to the door.

'Thanks for reading it over for me Bun - I mean, sir...' I mumble before pushing it open and hastily slipping out.


	12. Chapter 12

Hiccup has a trunk in his attic which he tells me he's never shown anyone else. I have a faint suspicion that this isn't entirely true; he has probably shown Astrid at some point, on account of the fact that they have been lifelong friends. But he insists with great certainty that I'm the only one in the world who's seen it aside from himself.

The trunk contains every surviving memory of Hiccup's childhood. Books and old paintings and a veil that he claims belonged to his mother for her wedding day.

'She was the loveliest bride there ever was,' he says, adjusting the veil over his own head, 'Isn't it remarkable? Back when she had the money, she could afford the greatest.'

'It's beautiful,' I reply, playfully lifting the veil from over his head so I can see his face, 'Did she pass it down to you for your wedding day?'

'I don't think she ever expected me to live long enough to get married,' he replies with a distant sadness in his tone.

I watch him wearing the veil, as he shifts close to me in friendly liking, batting his delicate green eyes in my direction with subtle desire. He asks me if I'll ever get married and I explain to him that Pitch never really was one to settle for a monogamous relationship. He isn't, to be truthful, though we do share a healthy sex life. But that's it really with him. Sex and the occasional dinner. There isn't really enough time for all that other romantic crap.

Hiccup returns the veil to its given spot and takes out a large, dusty album from the bottom of the trunk, obviously placed there for a rare occasion such as this. We curl up together in the small, musky space that we now share between us, dangerously close while he flicks through each individual page, shedding light on each event of his childhood. He was a normal baby, with not a tube or a monitor in sight and it is only as the book progresses, as he gets older that I notice the sudden weight loss, the sickly skin and finally the horrid tube in his nose, locked in there like a ring in a bull's nostrils. His father becomes absent from every family portrait and soon after his mother follows. The most recent picture is one of he and his grandparents sitting in their back garden in the blossoming sunlight, their radiant smiles masking the true discrepancy that lies underneath. Hiccup was more colourful in that photo than he is now sitting beside me. He had so much more life, so much more spirit. It saddens me to see him now, half the child he was back then. It saddens me.

'That's my mother,' he points out the second to last picture of a woman standing alone before the lens, in case I hadn't noticed already, 'She was pretty, wasn't she?'

'She was.'

'Very pretty. My Grandpa said I have her eyes. Do you think so Jack?'

'There is a resemblance, yes.'

He sighs abruptly, 'I wish you could have met her Jack. She would have loved you.'

'I'm sure I would have loved her too.'

But he shakes his head at me, 'Oh no, no...you would have despised her.'

'Why?'

He takes a single finger and presses it against her mouth, as if he's able to crush her head with one forceful poke.

'Hiccup?'

I bring him back to his senses and he peers at me as if he's only just realised I'm here.

'Don't get me wrong, she was a lovely woman Jack, when I was younger. She loved me when I was a baby. She used to take me out in my pram to show me off. She said I was her little miracle baby because the doctors had told her she wouldn't be able to have any children after her first miscarriage. She was going to have a girl, a beautiful little girl. She was going to give her a pretty name like Anastasia or Tatyana or something. She did up the spare room for her for when she was older and painted the whole thing pink - pink walls, a pink floor, everything just pink. She was so convinced she was going to have her little girl, with her little perfect dresses and perfect hair. But then she lost her. She lost her when she was eight and a half months pregnant. Stillborn. And after that they told her she wasn't able to have any more children. She and my dad kept trying because she was determined to have her perfect little girl. And then, after years of failure, she got pregnant again. She was disappointed, because it was a boy, but when I came out she saw my big green eyes and my chubby cheeks and she said to my father, "He's pretty! He's just what I wanted, he's positively gorgeous!" And she would parade me around the street in my little pink clothes - she said it didn't matter for a boy to wear pink - and whenever someone stopped by to coo at me or ask how old I was, she would stick her nose in the air and proudly tell them I was eight months, I was able to gurgle the entire alphabet and that I was a prize winner in every baby pageant in the country. Complete fantasy of course, but she truly believed I was perfect.

She kept me in that little pink room, with my pink clothes and my pink bed and she called me her pretty, perfect little boy. But then...well, then you see I got ill. I was six years old and I was diagnosed with heart disease. I wasn't her perfect little baby anymore. I was damaged. She changed after that. She tried too hard. If I got the slightest cough she would go crazy and refuse to let me out of the house. I wasn't allowed to play with the other children. I wasn't allowed to do _anything_. After my dad left, she cracked completely and started hurting herself. She never hurt me, not once, but she would burn her cigarettes out on herself, drink until she was sicking it up again...one time I refused to drink my juice and she locked herself in her room and came out with a tooth missing. I think she ripped it out. I don't know how she ripped it out but she must have. Because she blamed herself whenever I pulled a tantrum, whenever I fell and grazed my knee or started crying. She wasn't well Jack, she really wasn't. She was traumatized from what my father did to her. She told me of how she had tried to protect me from his violent temper, from his outbursts whenever he had been drinking, his random, unpredictable beatings. She always had a reason for why he left but I'm never sure which one was true. It went from him having some other woman in another state to her throwing him out for slapping me on one occasion, though I don't remember that ever happening. I don't think she really knew herself but I do know that it was _his_ fault, he was the reason she...'

He trails off and I suddenly feel his weight on my shoulder as he leans in and hides his face close to my neck. I feel wrong footed because of what Bunnymund told me but at the same time I have this overwhelming urge to hold him closer. I realise that Hiccup has become a part of my life; I realise now, in this cramped space, with him curled up to me so securely, that I have been thinking about him every night without even acknowledging it. That while I am in Pitch's arms, sharing the rhythm of each thrust we exchange in a sweet, sweaty embrace, my mind is somewhere else, dreaming of those eyes that always tell me there is no one else in the world he would rather see. I realise that I don't know what I want. I love Pitch, if love is what you can call it. I love his protection, his wisdom, what he gives me and what I can give him in return. But there is no sentimentality between us, no blissful innocence that I crave. We are together for the sake of it, because we're tired of being lonely. I don't want to let him go. But I have to. I know I have to.

But Hiccup is something that I cannot work out. I have no idea where I stand with him. I have grown to like him very much but I know there's more, there's more to it then that. I have no explanation for why I always see him, why I picture him instead of my own lover every night. There is a reason but I'll never say. I never can say. I'm here to do a job, not to get involved.

I refuse to let my arms move up to grasp him to me and simply allow him to press his face beneath my neck, nuzzling into my warmth, hounding for comfort that I just can't give him.

'What happened to your mother, Hiccup,' I ask tenderly, wanting to weep with frustration at not being able to touch him.

I feel him shake his head, shoulders heaving, 'Oh Jack...' he wraps his arms around my neck and nuzzles me harder so I can hear his fractured breathing up close, 'Please promise you won't tell Jack, please promise it'll be our secret.'

I can't contain myself. My hands reach up at their own accord and grasp his shirt, balling into fists, 'You've already read my first draft Hic. You know I didn't include anything you didn't want to be there. We went through it, remember? We sat at your kitchen table, with our muffins and hot chocolate, and we went through it.'

'Yes...' he replies in a whisper.

'Hiccup,' I pull him to sit on my lap, hunching up my knees, 'I've grown fond of you these past months.'

'I've grown fond of you too, Jack.'

'And I want you to know that...that right now I'm not here doing a job. I'm here as your friend. So whatever it is, you can tell me if you want to.'

He remains silent for a long while and I listen to him breathe, my hand caressing his layers of hair while he summons up the courage to speak. He's so small, so delicate in my arms, like a match that can be snapped between two fingers. I hate what he does to me, why he makes me question himself. I would rather be certain that I did in fact have a great liking for this boy rather than being confused. I have no idea how I feel, how far my affection lies with his person I have known for only half a year compared to Pitch, whom I've been on and off with since high school. Is Hiccup simply a saving grace in the bleak relationship I share with Pitch or is there something more, something I have been searching for without even realising it?

'Oh Jack,' he repeats in a whimper, tightening his hold, 'She killed herself. She killed herself Jack. I went up to her room to ask for a glass of water and I saw the curtains billowing in the night time air with no one in bed to close them; she had jumped right through and cracked her skull on the sidewalk.'

I understand now why Hiccup had been reluctant to tell me of how his mother had passed. I hold him like a child, murmuring sweet words of comfort into his flushed ear while he trembles and rages in my hold, mumbling, swearing inaudibly at himself, at the memory of what he had witnessed and allowed to happen. He doesn't cry, I notice, he never cries but I hear it in his voice and wonder if he wants to. Crying releases toxins after all.

His breathing hitches and I suddenly feels his hands move upwards at a lightning pace and clasp each cheek, staring intently into my eyes, hungry for something he knows I can't give him. I turn my face away before he can kiss me, though his hands try in vain to prise my head in the direction of his lips.

'No Henrick,' I say as firmly as I can, though my own hands are beginning to shake, 'We can't...I...I have a boyfriend-'

He's not listening; both hands move behind his head and remove the tube attached to his nose, letting it drop to the floor.

'Henrick,' I'm fearful now, watching the colour drain from his face as he is forced to breathe independently, 'Henrick, no, you'll die-'

'Mister Overland,' he replies in desperation, both hands clutching either side of my face, 'If I don't kiss you now, I'll die anyway.'

I haven't the time to protest. He won't let me. I am enamoured into a sweet, unforgiving kiss before I can even move to avoid it. My hands scrabble to get a hold of him, to push him away from me. But I'm unable to, terrified I'll cause damage or ruin his spirit with my reluctance. I can't break away.

I don't think I want to break away.

I fall head first into his trap.


	13. Chapter 13

As soon as I arrive home, I break down on the doorstep, just at the hopelessness of it all, at the sheer guilt of my actions that occurred only an hour before I set foot on my own doorstep again.

Sandy hurries to me immediately, meowing and rubbing his furry cheeks against my knee in an effort to comfort me but I hardly realise he's there. Pitch, attracted from the bedroom by my sobbing, stands and watches me from a fair distance for a while before approaching and carefully taking me in his arms, carrying me like a bride to our bed and laying me down on the sheets. He waits until I've calmed myself, brushing my messy hair away from my eyes, forehead leaned gently against my own so our faces are meters apart.

'What happened Jack?' He asks in a whisper.

'I'm sorry,' I burble in reply, locking both arms around his neck and sobbing into his front, 'I'm so sorry.'

'About what, my love?'

I mumble apologies between kisses, forcefully shoving my flushed lips against his own to rid myself of my own remorse until he's forced to keel back and repeat his previous question.

'It was Hiccup, wasn't it?' He asks in a purr, his brilliant mind already at work.

I nod and make a disgusting sobbing noise, burying my face into his front again, 'I'm sorry...'

Slim fingers reach up and caress my hair, 'What did he do Jackson?'

So I tell him every detail. I tell him how Hiccup ripped out his tube and threw it on the floor as if it was the most insignificant object in the world. How he seized me and forced me to give into the horrific temptations that I had been feeling for so long now. How I had forgotten myself and allowed him to do it, only to come to my senses, remember that I was a taken man with a job to do and I wasn't prepared to go as far as having an affair with my client. How I pushed him off, snatched his tube and refused to leave until he had put it back on. How he had yelled at me in a frail wheeze that if I left, he would never wear it again.

How I left him screaming after me, calling my name, without even look back once.

I say all this and Pitch smiles at me.

'I knew it was only a matter of time Jack.'

I look up at him, stunned, 'W-what?'

'Figures. After all, all you've been talking about recently is Mister Henrick Haddock.'

'Pitch, I...I don't understand-'

'Hush,' he silences me, 'It's fine, Jackson. It's only natural for you to go looking elsewhere when you're stuck in a relationship that's completely ground to a halt.'

'Pitch, no, that's not what-'

'Jack,' he only ever uses the shortened version of my name when he's really worked me out, 'You've been whispering his name whenever I take you.'

I can't recollect my thoughts. I don't recall ever doing such a thing but if Pitch says it, it must be so. I fall apart again, loud wails into his already sodden front while he rocks me, murmuring soft words under his breath, words that I don't deserve. I've betrayed him in the worst way possible and I can't stand myself for it.

'You're never in control of who you fall for, Jackson,' he says tenderly, when my sobbing has reduced to mild snivelling, 'Love is a force of nature.'

'I hate it,' I mutter, giving an unattractive sniff.

'You may hate it now, but after a while you will learn to accept it.'

I nuzzle into his warm skin, as hopeless as a child , 'Oh Pitch, what do I do?'

'Talk to him. Talk about everything. And then see how things go.'

'But...but I don't want to,' I nuzzle harder, determined, 'I don't want to talk, I don't want to do anything. I love _you_.'

That familiar chuckle returns, driving me crazy, 'Perhaps you did, once. But you and I both know Jackson that all we have is good, easy sex. That's the only thing holding us together right now. We're both afraid of being alone so we cling to each other. It will always be that way no matter how many times I make dinner.'

I can't even muster a laugh at this dull joke. I keep shaking my head, not wanting it to be real. Not wanting to be fatally attracted to the boy what I'm supposed to have no relationship with at all.

'No,' I keep saying, 'No, I won't believe it.'

'Denial will never get you anywhere Jack,' Pitch sighs at my frustration, 'Stop hanging on to spare parts. Go and have a chance at love. Go and be _happy_.'

I know I'll never be happy. Hiccup will never want to see me again after what occurred in his house. I'll go back to being a lone, solitary figure, hostile to the rest of the world.

My tears resume as he leans down and gives me another kiss; not the usual kiss, a farewell kiss. An assortment of light pecks that intend to heal. He peels off my clothes the way he usually does, only this time half heartedly, not a mad race in a fit of passion and then does the same to himself, gently discarding them onto the floor beside us. He turns me over as carefully as you would a baby, taking my hips while he lowers his own pants and the tip of his member tickles my entrance without its usual stunning glow.

I feel nothing as he pushes in and out of me, for I can never concentrate when I'm crying. Shame is what dominates me at this very moment, deep and utter shame at myself and what I've gotten into. This isn't love, this is comfort sex. That's all I've ever known with Pitch, orgasmic love-making and that's it. That's not a relationship. I think so much differently of Hiccup; with him I can envision our glory days, nights of undying passion in each others arms, curled up with his sleeping dog by the fireplace while we laugh over the times when we weren't in each other's lives.

Pitch is right. I don't want it to be true but the truth is inevitable.

When we reach our breaking point, he pulls out of me a final time and I release a single, pleasured moan that marks the end of everything - a long, relaxed "_aaaah_" sound while he returns his manhood to the given spot and gives my naked rear a gentle pat as a signal for me to turn over. I turn onto my back again, plastered in my own sweat as he curls up next to me so all we have is our body heat to share.

'I'll miss this,' he says quietly, 'Things are always alright between us when it's at a slow pace.'

'As soon as everything speeds up, we can't see enough of each other,' I sigh in return.

'Jack, I need you to promise me that you'll go after Henrick. You can't let him slip away from you, otherwise you'll regret it for the rest of your life.'

'I just don't know how I feel right now...I tell myself to keep feelings at bay but whenever I'm around him...I just...he takes my breath away.'

Those amber eyes watch me with great understanding and I marvel at how Pitch is taking this; I'm lying here, telling him I love someone else and his response is to assist me in winning over my love rather than wringing my unfaithful little neck. But I suppose he knew as well as I did that this would happen eventually, one of us would find someone else and finally give up holding onto something that wasn't there. This is for the best, despite how much it hurts.

'Do you remember when I asked you to marry me?' He reaches over and caresses my cheek a moment, 'You were sixteen.'

'And living with a father who was so overbearing I needed to get away,' I sigh, 'We were crazy about each other back then.'

'It was a teenage dream, Jack. As soon as we were faced with the real world, we grew apart.'

'I can't even remember who broke it off.'

'No one really. It just sort of broke off without us realising.'

I adjust my head under his chin, 'What would have happened if we had gone through with it?'

'Who knows. A divorce would have followed six months afterwards probably.'

'Nah, there's no way we'd go through all that paperwork.'

For the first time we manage to laugh together without there being some falsity between us. Our eyes lock together a while longer, amber meeting blue and finally he gives me a parting kiss on the lips and sits up, pulling his shirt back over both shoulders and sliding on his sweats.

'I need to go now Jackson.'

Suddenly alert, I swat away the lone tear that strays from my eye and quickly pull my pants back to my waist.

'No, please,' I beg him, tugging at his sleeve before he can escape, 'Don't leave Pitch. I know things can't be the way they used to be but...please, I don't want to be alone. I can't, I just can't be alone again, _fuck_...'

My hands scrabble to my bedside table to find a cigarette but I'm fresh out and my legs hurt horribly from moving about so recently after intercourse. Pitch catches me in his arms again and holds me close.

'Calm yourself Jack,' his voice seems to float with the air, soothing me, 'I'll stay as long as you want me to stay. But you need to talk with Henrick. I'm right behind you. It's going to be alright.'

But I don't believe him. There in his arms, I don't believe a word he says. I hear my cell going off in my pocket, a distant buzz announcing the fifth frantic, begging text from Hiccup, but I ignore it. I focus on my own disbelief at Pitch's statement.

There's no way any of this is going to be alright, no way whatsoever.

No way whatsoever.


	14. Chapter 14

I feel sick. I have this sudden urge for the ground to become a bog and slowly allow me to sink into its depths. Mr North's small eyes scan my paper, the tip of his nose almost touching it. I realise now that my judgement day has come; this is it, life or death. The fate of my career lies in his hands.

He finishes the last sentence and removes his glasses; Ana cocks her head at him curiously to read his reaction.

I should have paid heed to Bunnymund's prediction.

'Not bad Mister Overland,' he says slowly and I feel my stomach sink, 'But...is this it?'

I twiddle my fingers in discomfort, 'It's...it's what I've got sir...'

'It's a promising start but...it needs to be more...' he snaps his fingers, 'You know, boy...lively.'

I try not to singe with anger, '_Lively_, sir?'

'You know, some cracks in his past, more on his tormented childhood. Stuff like that, stuff people want to read.'

'Hic - I mean, Mister Haddock didn't want any of that mentioned in the article. I wanted to respect his wishes.'

'Be that as it may, your job is to write a paper, not do as your client tells you.'

I struggle to control my impending anger, 'But sir, he had a right to-'

'You are a very capable writer, Mister Overland,' North does his usual routine of pacing around me in a sly circle, 'And you know very well what you'll make of yourself through this paper. Now I believe that you know more than you are letting on. What exactly did he tell you?'

'I can't tell you sir.'

I sense his growing impatience, 'Mister Overland, do I have to remind you that I am your boss?'

'No sir. But I'm still not telling you a thing.'

My job is hanging on a thin wire but I refuse to back down. I stand my ground, solidly like a dog, my cheeks blazing red from the heat that is suddenly erupting through my body. I think I've startled him, I really do; I doubt that many as small and scrawny as me have dared to even look directly into his eyes. I expect him to order me out of his office and clear my desk but those words never leave his lips. He shakes his head.

'Very well. You may leave, Mister Overland.'

I glance up at him, 'Sir?'

'You may leave.'

I watch him with great distrust but hover closer to the door anyway, 'So...my paper is going through?'

'Yes...yes I'll have Ana send it through right now.'

Something passes between us and I don't like it; I sense that something is going on, some diabolical plan working in his head. I wonder if I'll have time to reach out and snatch my paper from his large, bone-grinding hands without damaging it. Later on I will look back and comprehend my own stupidity at ever trusting him but right now I just want to get out of there, just get out and breathe.

I nod respectively and quickly hasten out of the room, find the nearest toilet and neatly throw up into the sink.

* * *

Hiccup's frantic calls taunt me for the days that follow, in which I refuse to resume any sort of conversation with him. I do not mention any of this to Mr North, for I know I will find myself walking out of Burgess Enterprise faster than I came in if he ever discovers I had kissed a client while on a job. I keep myself in my room with only Sandy and occasionally the lingering presence of Pitch to comfort me, typing endlessly at my laptop, writing paragraphs of mindless drivel that isn't for anything, that doesn't make any sense.

I am falling back into the ghost that I became so long ago, bottomless depression that had almost driven me to abuse myself, to abuse everyone else around me. Something that I could never escape from and would spend endless hours locked in my own bathroom, dragging any sharp utensils handy down my skin until the floor was christened with my own plasma. My addiction to hurt myself begins to resurface and I find myself scratching at my own hands in an effort not to reach out and stab myself with something.

I ignore the calls but whenever he sends a text I foolishly read it, unable to avoid the pleading words on the phone screen.

_Jack, you can't go on ignoring me like this._

_Jack, this is ridiculous. You can't hide by not replying._

_Jesus Christ, will you answer? I swear, I'll do something we'll both regret if you go on like this!_

The anger turns to pleading.

_Please Jack, I'm sorry I was such a bitch. Please, we can talk about this?_

_I shouldn't have done what I did, I had no right. I put you in an impossible position and I'm so sorry._

And finally, simple bitter sorrow.

_Jack, please._

_Jack?_

_Don't leave me. Please. _

_I love you._

It appeals to me, his begging nature. It torments me to no end but at the same time I get this satisfied buzz that he blames himself, he regrets what he did. He's beating himself up about the matter as much as I am.

It doesn't stop the falling.

* * *

_Jack, please. Can we talk about this?_

_Jack, I'm sorry._

_Oh Jack, please answer._

I turn my phone off, wanting to fling it through the open window and watch it splinter onto the train tracks below. Hidden in the depths of my coat pocket I am immune to its calls. The train suddenly grinds to a halt and Astrid turns and captures my arm, dragging us out of the carriage.

'Come on,' she says quietly, 'I'll take you to a cafe.'

We find a small place in Burgess' City Centre, past the taxis and the laughing children, in a small bistro on the sidewalk. I'm in no mood to drink but I order a skinny latte for the sake of it, though I am only interested in watching the cream sink below the liquid's surface. Astrid rambles on about anything and everything to keep me distracted but my sunken eyes expose my lack of sleep and my hands fiddle around looking for something to sink into them.

'Have you spoken to Henrick?'

'I haven't.'

'He won't talk to me. He won't answer my texts.'

'He won't bloody leave me alone.'

'Maybe you should talk-'

I bang my fist against the table fiercely, making the cups rattle, 'Talk! That's all we ever do! That's all we've ever done for the past six months, talk, talk, talk!'

I realise I've upset her and steady my anger by reaching out and caressing the supple side of her face, 'Astrid, forgive me, I...'

She opens her mouth to reply to my apology but then her eyes grow too big for her face and she tells me to keep my head down. I don't need to ask the reason for this command; I can tell as soon as she ducks behind the table; the looming figure of Sidmouth Jorgenson hovers close to the bistro, just beside the road as he hails down a taxi cab. He's not alone; he has two other companions, a man and a woman. The woman is as blonde as Astrid herself but her hair falls in large, untidy clumps. She has a long face with a sharp chin that could cut like a knife. She is in no way thin but her stout, masculine composure almost makes me proud of her; she has this radiant confidence that makes her plain appearance seem insignificant.

We both know exactly who she is.

The other male, who resembles her in about every way possible, stands several feet away from them, juggling a little black kitten between both hands. I wonder if the cat belongs to him or whether he simply picked it off the street; either way, he doesn't seem sure what to do with it so merely passes it between each hand like a basketball player. He's a ghost to the other two, the sort of person who is so cut off from the rest of the world that he hardly realises he's alive.

Astrid puts her head down and comments on the menu but I know she's talking for the sake of talking. The three of them grab their taxi and I hear the driver murmur something about having animals in the back seat but the girl's twin rebuffs him completely.

'I know her,' Astrid whispers desperately when she's sure they've driven on, 'Her name's Rhonda. But they called her Ruffnut at school. Because she's a brute, a horrible brute.' She sank her face into her hands, 'Oh, I've been such a fool Jack. Such a blind, gullible fool...'

'Who was the other man with her?'

'Her brother, her twin, Tyler. They called him Tuffnut.'

I reach over and take both her hands, 'Henrick told me you knew.'

'Of course I knew. But...well, I suppose I ignored it. Tried to convince myself that maybe the rumours weren't true. But who was I kidding?'

'Why don't you leave him Astrid?'

'Because Daisy needs a father.'

'A father like _that_?'

She sighs and puts both hands on her lap, 'I best be getting home. He'll be wanting his lunch when he gets back...' and then she adds, '...if he_ does_ come back.'

'You don't deserve this Astrid.'

And what she says next almost breaks my heart, 'Don't I?'

I can't stand to be there any more; I mumble a quick farewell, kiss her powdered cheek and suddenly I'm speeding down the street, not sure of where I'm going or what I'm going to do. I just have this overwhelming sickness that I can't shake off and it almost kills me.

I wonder if there's any chance of me disappearing. Just disappearing into the air, another face in the crowd and never being seen again.


	15. Chapter 15

**BURGESS ENTERPRISE **

**THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT: **ONE BOY'S JOURNEY IN HOPE OF A NEW HEART

_Henrick Haddock may seem like your usual seventeen year old boy. But in reality, he is an individual. _

_He is a survivor of heart disease, a rare condition in which the coronary arteries are unable to supply enough blood to the heart. Burgess Enterprise has managed to gain access to Henrick's story and the string of unfortunate events that affected his difficult childhood._

_At the age of eight, Hiccup suffered his first heart attack while playing in his childhood home. Since that day, his life has changed forever; Henrick has suffered from three heart attacks, two strokes and was pronounced dead for a whole minute by doctors after suffering cardiac arrest in hospital. _

_His condition was particularly thwarted by the lack of consideration from his estranged family; __his father, a man forever absent in Henrick's life, was an abusive alcoholic, a tyrant, a man who walked out of Henrick's life when he needed him the most. Henrick recalls a time when his father, in an unprovoked attack, soundly spanked him and left him to cry; '**I don't understand how he could have done it; a grown man, laying a hand on a sick child. I just don't understand it**.'_

_His father's abuse left a permanent effect on Hiccup; he became rebellious, refusing to attend school and becoming increasingly hostile to his peers. His mother, who suffered from mental instabilities, often allowed this to happen. After violently assaulting his son, Henrick's father was forced to leave the family home, leaving his mother__ to care for her child alone._

_In Henrick's adolescence years, his mother fell into depression and later drove herself to take her own life, leaving her son in the care of his grandparents. Forced to lead an independent life while living in dire poverty, Henrick is now determined for coronary bypass surgery, an operation that could ultimately save his life. But his childhood and past demons seem to be a constant obstacle in his journey. With only his dog as a friend, Henrick is in desperate need of donations in order to preserve and lead a healthy life. _

_Without the public's help, it may be too late._

**Jackson Overland Frost**

**_Writer for Burgess Enterprise_**


	16. Chapter 16

I can't take my eyes off the paper for all the wrong reasons.

I stare at it, eyes wide, my breath coming out nervous and in long, thick grunts as my fingers curl up, scrunching the sides of the newspaper.

It's my article.

But it's _not_ my article.

I don't understand. I had handed the draft over to Mr North, I had seen him take it with my own eyes. But this isn't my paper; it has my name at the end of it, but it isn't mine. Everything about Henrick's parents, his childhood, I had completely left it out at his consent.

But now it's here, for all the world to see.

Everyone knows.

I throw myself into the car before Pitch is even awake and slam my foot on the accelerator; I arrive at work in record timing, while exceeding the legal speed limit. As I pass through the door to my office, one of my colleagues holding today's paper clamps me on the back.

'Nice work Frost. You're the talk of the office! You know, Mr North is thinking of moving you up a few levels because of this.'

Had this been told to me a few months ago, I would have been touching the sky with joy. Now all I can do is mumble a hurried thanks and dash past him.

As soon as I reach Mr North's office, the door swings open and the man himself comes lumbering out, looking very pleased with himself. There are two other men with him, both dressed in suits, the sort of people you think very highly of. As soon as North sees me, he greets me like an old friend.

'Ah, there you are Frost!' He exclaims, slinging a giant arm around my neck, 'Here's the man I was telling you about, gentlemen. He's the very talk of _Burgess Enterprise_ at this moment in time.'

I'm dumbfounded. They shake my hand but my arm flops like a rag doll, unable to move properly.

'I was very impressed with your article, Mister Frost,' one of them says to me, 'A very different take to our paper's usual material.'

'That is why we'd like to offer you a position in senior management,' the other adds.

I stare at them as if they're mad. I can't understand how I've managed to get to the top without climbing all the stairs. Rather than simply agreeing with them, I retaliate.

'But...but how?'

'Your article has given the paper it's biggest ratings in years!' North's large hand pats me on the shoulder, 'Money has been pouring in, the shops are sold out. I believe we need your mastermind in our senior office. Someone with a creative intellect to keep this company going.'

I can't take it in. I just can't. I suddenly don't care about my job. I just want to find out what happened. What happened to the paper I wrote, that I worked so hard on, that I poured my life and soul into.

I look at Mr North and my question is answered for me.

I let them talk but their words mean nothing to me. They're talking about getting me a bigger office, hiring a secretary. All this for me, me, me.

No one cares about Hiccup.

I wait until they've left us, until we're both alone in the hallway, before saying under my breath, 'That wasn't my paper.'

North pretends he hasn't heard me, 'You best start prepping yourself for your next story Frost. This is only the beginning. I can see you covering every reality article in the city-'

'That wasn't my paper.'

He turns and looks at me, eyebrows slightly slanted, 'That hardly matters Frost.'

'Where's my paper?'

'It's in every news stand in Burgess.'

'My_ real_ paper?'

He removes his glasses and wipes them, 'It's not important-'

'You replaced it.'

He doesn't deny it. He doesn't even answer properly.

'Like I said, people want to read news. Whether you wrote it or not, it's your article. And it's a great success, so I suggest you be a little more grateful.'

He moves towards the door and I hiss, 'How did you find out? All that stuff, how did you find it out?'

He never responds. He opens the door to his office and disappears inside.

I'm in no mood to work. I stalk out of the hallway, past the working computers and the gaze of Aster Bunnymund who already senses the rising anger in my movement. I don't look at Ana. I don't look at anybody.

I open the door to my office and find all my papers scattered across my desk. All the private notes on Henrick's life, every detail of his father, of his mother, of his very fears that I wrote down to myself, that I foolishly stored in my drawers, now emptied out and exposed for anyone to view. Someone had simply walked into my office, fumbled through my drawers and discovered Hiccup's private world.

And then they had written a new story, a story that people actually wanted to read.

I collapse, picturing Hiccup curled up in his chair, a tube through his nose, Toothless' large head tucked under his arm, while he opens the morning paper and sees his life on the front page.

I lay my head on the floor and sob.


	17. Chapter 17

I was hearing from Hiccup less and less in the days leading up to the incident. The begging texts, the pleading speeches were shorter, briefer, with little care put into every word.

After my article was published, they ceased altogether.

I've begun smoking three a day. And the drink has slowly beginning to creep up on me as well.

Pitch comes in and attempts to get me out of bed but I'm as drunk as a monkey and can't even muster as much as an insult in his direction.

'I aint done wi' em,' I say, poking his nose, 'I aint done wi' anyone o' them. Jurks...basturds...Kansas City...'

He doesn't say anything to me but before I can even ask him if he can pass me another cigarette, I'm hoisted over his shoulder, kicking like a child and before my mind can piece together what's actually occurred I'm up to my waist in warm water.

The bath helps calm me down and I sleep off the rest of my drunken state, while Pitch gets Sandy his breakfast and begins my usual regime of cleaning the apartment. Through my heated slumber, I envision Hiccup's house, swarming with the press like bees over a hive; Hiccup, trapped inside with only Toothless for company, unable to run, unable to hide.

Even in my drunken state, I know I have to see him.

I fall out of bed, quite literally and fumble my way through my drawer in search of suitable clothing, wondering what the hell I'm getting myself into and whether the hell I'll ever get myself out.

Sometimes I wish I had never gone to Hiccup's house that day.

* * *

My assumption was correct. The press buzz around Hiccup's home like flies.

I sneak around the back before any of them can ask me any questions and go to the kitchen window which I know is always unlocked, my secret passageway for previous meetings with my chocolate-haired client. I climb through it subtly, hopping onto the kitchen counter and then quickly walking down the hall in search of Hiccup.

The house has been plunged into a blackout, with every curtain drawn, every blind closed. I feel my way in the pitch black and realise Hiccup is not in his chair, nor is the dog lying beside him. My next guess is the bedroom upstairs, the pink one he always told me about. The one his affectionate but quite possibly insane mother made up for him.

I find him there as I expected, sitting on the bed, face buried in Toothless' thick, warm fur while the dog makes a gracious effort to console him. He knows I'm here but wishes to block out my presence; he stares across the floor as if my impending shadow is nowhere in sight and only the opposite end of the hallway is visible.

'Hic-' I'm suddenly not worthy enough to use that nickname, 'Henrick, may I come in?'

He nods, still cradling the dog and when Toothless recognises me not to be a stranger, his tail descends into an excited wag.

Nothing passes between us like it used to; what was once a burning unknown passion is now simply air. He watches me as if I'm a ghost, a ghost no longer worthy to haunt and he completely shuts me off with his gaze.

'What a way to get back at me, Mister Jackson,' he says with the purest venom.

This angers me. The untruthfulness in his statement drives all the blood to my head. I want to yell at him, tell him he doesn't know anything. I don't. I haven't the nerve to, not just yet.

Instead I reply with, 'It's not what you think, Henrick.'

He completely rebuffs this comment, 'I mean, I know I shouldn't have done what I did, but did you really have to go to such lengths to punish me?'

'Henrick, please,' I go and kneel by his bed, taking his hands in my own, 'I swear to you, I never meant for this to happen-'

'I trusted you-'

'They ransacked my room! They found all the information I took down, I never gave it to them, I promise!'

He tears his hands away from me, 'I _trusted_ you. You were the first person I had ever trusted in my life. Even more than Astrid, even more than my own mother. I trusted you Mister Overland and now you've done this.'

'Henrick-'

'They were right about you,' he suddenly says in a growl, 'She told me - Astrid said before I signed up for all this. She said "_never trust the press Hic; they'll give you the knife and then stab you in the back with it_." And she was right, she was right, _why_ didn't I listen to her?'

I stare at him, my face a tropical burn, 'Henrick, I...'

'You're a snake,' he says to me in a hiss and he stands, our faces inches apart, 'I can't believe you'd kiss me. I can't believe you'd kiss me behind your lover's back. That's all I was to you, wasn't I? I was your jewel for the night, a passing fancy! Do you know what you are to me now Mister Overland? You're a _scar_. One of many scars but the worst scar of all. You don't know anything about pain, do you? You were brought up with fine dining and horseback rides, weren't you? Sitting down every night to an evening of pringles and Sky One, that night at Pizza Hut when you were waiting for your daddy to pick you up in his Rolls Royce-'

'Shut up,' I find myself snapping at his ridiculous babble, 'You don't know _anything_.'

He's taken back by my comment, 'What did you say?'

'I said shut up. I think it's about time someone told you that. I can safely say you're the most uptight, spoilt little brat I have ever come across in my life. You think you know everything but you know absolutely nothing, Hiccup. You're a little fool, a pathetic little fool. You know nothing about me, about my life, about what I've been through. You think you know everything about death? Ha! You know I tried to kill myself? I stood on a chair, with a noose hanging from a hook on my ceiling and I tried to kill myself. But I didn't, because I was too scared! But I'm scared to live as well. My shoulders - I cut them. My wrists - I cut them. My legs - I cut them! So don't you talk to me about scars. I know what pain and misery they bring. Don't you **_dare_ **tell me about **_scars_**!'

I've frightened him greatly and I realise then that he's cowering on the floor and I have a fist raised high over my head and Toothless is prowling around in the background with a snarl at the back of his throat. I wonder if Hiccup's anticipating a beating that I will never give him but I don't wait around for a reaction. I've already outstayed my welcome.

I stalk out of the bedroom, to the staircase and I hear the scuffle of feet behind me followed by the loud jangle of Toothless' collar.

'No, Jack, please!' His tactics have changed and he clings to me, 'Don't leave, please, _please_! You said you'd never leave, you _promised_!'

Previously I would have taken him in my arms and soothed his hysteria. Now I tell him, 'Let me go.'

'No, no!' he sobs, 'I'll never let go, I'll _die_ before I let go!'

That's when Toothless starts barking. He's barking loudly, obviously sensing a problem but I'm too angry to acknowledge his warning. I managed to prise Hiccup off me and push him away so he staggers back four or five paces.

And then the whole thing happens in an instant; Hiccup opens his mouth to call to me again when he suddenly drools blood and keels over onto his front, hand over his heart.

I'm frozen, staring at him as his stomach gives way and he begins coughing up dangerous clots of blood, staining the floorboards. Toothless is going crazy, racing down the stairs, headbutting the door, running back to me, tugging at my trouser leg to get my attention. He snaps me out of my own surreal nightmare and I drop to Hiccup's side; he collapses, the blood coming out thick and fast and in dangerous amounts, like pints of red water. I put a hand over his throat, my skin suddenly warm and wet with thick moisture as he coughs and hacks, fighting for life.

I scream with everything left in me. I scream and when I cannot scream anymore, I make a high pitched wailing sound similar to a dog with its neck caught in a vice and pull his fading body into my arms to cradle, my lips scattering desperately across his face to leave a thousand healing kisses until my mouth is hot and dripping with his blood.


	18. Chapter 18

One thing I can safely criticise myself for is my vulnerability to worrying about things.

It's bred into me to worry, a specific family trait passed down through my lineage that causes me to get restless and frumpy over the smallest of issues. To fret about work, to fret about the little friends I have, to fret about the stupid little specks of dust floating at the back of my head that pose little to no threat, yet I decide to fret over them anyway. My cousin once told me I was the type of person who could easily give myself a terminal illness just from worrying alone. That statement, additionally, gave me another thing to worry about.

But then Pitch asked me, for no reason in particular when we were outside _Burgess Enterprise_ waiting for the rain to stop, 'When was the last time you worried about yourself?'

I suppose I never really have worried about myself. Because it's easier to worry about other things. Being anxious over other things and other people helps distract you from your own tedious life, so why would I worry about myself?

I wonder if other people feel the same way. If there's someone out there who worries about me rather than worrying about themselves. Someone I don't know, hidden in the shadows, never seen and ever heard. All they do is worry. Worry for what I'll do, where I'll go and what I'll become.

I think change is one element of life that I'm deeply afraid to comprehend. The sheer realisation that everything that once was may not be the same in what could be the fraction of a second; your very life as you know it once firmly secure and out of reach, suddenly speeding away from you, out of your control.

Change is what shapes us, the lowly mortals that we are. I suppose from the dawn of time, when the Earth was still changing herself, we were becoming different to what we used to be without even realising it. It's frightening how everything can be changing while you're stuck in a box, unaware, unfocused on what may come.

I envy those who can hide from the real world; who can experience a nightmare and never remember it again; who can be spat on in the street and brush it off like dust; who can value every good aspect of their very existence and never dwell on what they never achieved in the dull, dragging years they were alive. I envy those who are able to stand and keep walking if ever any barriers rise and block their way, no matter how high they rise or how firmly they stick to the ground. Who can tell themselves every morning that every bad thing in their past happened and it's gone, finished, part of the air and go on breathing, their skin thicker than ever.

In envy those who love their own skin, love being in their own skin. In my childhood days as a little innocent fool I assumed that was how it worked; you hated your skin so you stepped out of the old one you loathed so richly and wore another. Unfortunately my skin is mine and it always will be but I suppose I have come to a mutual understanding with my own self. I don't like myself but as long as I know there's a little being in my head whom I share a lukewarm relationship with, who I'll occasionally lock horns with, maybe cry with, confide with, then I can sustain the lifelong truce I have made with myself, make it work.

I've always been on the autistic spectrum.

I have never been diagnosed, not properly, but from a young age I have exhibited behaviour that others would find bizarre in a child. For one thing, I was unable to speak until I was four years old. I just sat and stared at people, unable to make my lips move and my tongue did a little trick of curling to the back of my mouth so speech was impossible. When I did get round to talking, I was obsessive in any conversation created; I could go on for hours about my favourite toy, the puppy I had just seen tied outside the off licence, the new colouring pens my mother bought me until your mind literally rattled with all the information given.

I never went to school. I was taught by my Papa to read and write while my mother worked long shifts at the factory, came home and had a fag and then watched _Stars in their Eyes _before bed. I don't remember her, or try not to remember her. She was hardly there and when she was there, she didn't want to be. She was a poor excuse of a woman, I am ashamed to say and I was simply the white-haired, tubby toddler who always seemed to get in her way.

I was my Papa's pride and joy. He taught me everything; he read my little stories, he watched me colour my colouring books, he spread himself out on the living room floor and held me above him in his arms, chatting to me as if I were his own age and I adored him for that. I really did - I adored my father and was so grateful that I had him with me.

When I was reaching my fifth birthday, my mother packed her bags and announced she was going to England. My father never told me why but I later discovered she had had an affair in Los Angeles with a British tourist and had chosen to be with him rather than her own family. I was so unattached that I felt very little loss.

My Papa raised me alone on pennies; he was a gentle, kind hearted man who didn't have the heart to yell at me, never had the spirit to spank me and if I were ever in a bad mood or throwing myself to the floor in a tantrum, he would merely take me in his arms and kiss away my tears until my crying had ceased.

But I remember my Papa telling me about judging others. I was thirteen and he had me on his lap, reading a book about Helen of Troy and he paused in his reading and told me, '_Always remember Jackson. You never really know a person. You never really know what they've heard or what they've seen. So never allow a person's face to determine what's gone on behind it_.'

I didn't quite understand then. But I do now. My Papa died when I was sixteen years old from a cancerous tumour in his leg; before the funeral, before the guests arrived, I went to his coffin and wept quietly beside it for a few uninterrupted minutes. I think I asked him to forgive me. Forgive me for being such a difficult child; all those times when I refused to drink my milk, when I threw my toys or told him I hated him.

And he said to me, '_Remember the good times, Jackson_.'

No, I was not mad. He spoke to me, my father did. He spoke right out of his grave and he still does to this day. Whenever I need him, his voice will be present at the back of my mind with his soft tone, his consoling words.

'_Remember the good times. When we smiled and laughed and kissed each other. After all, the good times were far more frequent than the bad_.'

I needed my Papa more than ever now. He understood how much I loathed hospitals but no one else seemed to. No one seemed to notice me at all, no matter how much I prowled about with a lion-like force, waiting to hear news on Hiccup's current state.

I know that by tomorrow we would be on every newspaper in the city. The blurred black and white image of me standing on the doorstep, Hiccup bloodied and limp in my arms while I held him like a bride and calmly asked if there were any doctors present.

But that isn't important. Everything else, every small detail of my life is irrelevant now. I just pace pointlessly past the window of the operating theatre, where a greasy-haired surgeon is busy pumping away at Hiccup's bloodstained chest in hope of knocking some life back into him.

Nothing works.

I claw at the walls, a strange hysteria falling over me; I realise that I'm starting to feel the feelings I should have felt a long time ago. I love Henrick Haddock. It's as simple as that - I love him. I need him in my life, my life that has been so bleak until he walked into it.

I _need_ him.

The only way I can describe it really is like some sort of cliché horror movie. Or a horrible romance that is so sickeningly sweet, you have to cover your eyes. But it's reality biting you, waking you up and forcing you to look at the real picture. I start counting.

'_1...2...3..._'

'Mister Overland?'

I can't let them interrupt me.

'_4...5...6..._'

'I'm afraid we have some bad news.'

I halt, staring at the nurse in front of me; he's a young guy, about my own age, watching me with a nervous twitch in his left eye.

'I'm afraid your friend has passed away.'

For a moment, I'm too dumb to understand, 'Passed away where?'

He studies me with great apprehension and I'm led into the operating theatre, where they remove the tube that was previously crammed down Hiccup's throat to help him breathe. There's no need for it now. He won't be doing any more breathing.

'Why are they stopping?' I ask to no one in particular, 'He isn't awake yet.'

'Mister Overland,' one of the doctors removes her mask, watching me with glazed eyes that are full of pity, 'I'm afraid he didn't make it.'

That's a damning statement if ever I heard one. For a moment I almost laugh at her. Hiccup dying isn't humanly possible, doesn't this woman know anything?

I shake my head automatically, 'No.'

'He lost a dangerous amount of blood-'

'Shut up...'

'Mister Overland-'

'Shut_ up_!' I suddenly bellow at her and my hands clamp against my ears, 'Don't!'

She lowers her eyes to the floor, her face the picture of understanding, 'We'll give you some time alone with him before the funeral director gets here.'

I think that's when it kicked in; something completely snaps inside me and I throw myself at the boy lying on the operating table, sobbing feverishly without any control over myself, kissing his face in hope that it might get the blood pumping back to his heart again.

He never moves.

I feel the weight of a hand on my back, gently stroking in an awkward effort to console; I know it's the nurse, his small hands fumbling to comfort me, rubbing up my shoulders, tussling my hair though I don't even seem to feel his touch.

'I-I'm sorry,' he says foolishly above my crying, 'I never meant...this is truly awful...'

I barely hear him. I lift Hiccup in my arms, desperately nuzzling our faces together as if in an effort to resurrect him.

'Hiccup, please,' I beg him, 'You can fight this, I know you can. You've beaten this before, please, just don't leave now. Not now, it's too soon. I can't say goodbye yet, I just can't. _Please_, Hic, I love you. I've always loved you, I'm just such a stupid, blind dick that I couldn't see it. Please, my darling, don't leave now,' I desperately kiss him, a forceful push of the lips that sends tears flooding out of my eyes and down my cheeks in a sturdy, salty waterfall, 'I want you Hic. I won't let you leave. I _love_ you.'

I kiss him. And that's all I can do. I sit in that small room, with Hiccup and the twitching nurse and all I can do it kiss until breathing is half impossible. Because kissing takes me away from this unsafe place, back into my fantasy where we could actually be together, live happily, never have a worry to think of. But I have become accustomed now to the morbid fact that my fantasies will remain something of my tired imagination.

_I've never been happy before so what gives me the right to be happy now?_

'I never deserved you,' I sniff, cuddling my face into his neck as I gently rock him, 'I never deserved anything as bright and precious as you.'

Something tickles my back but I hardly notice.

'I ruined everything, I fucked everything up like I always do,' my hands stroke his hair delicately, 'I let you down, I always let everyone down.'

I hear the nurse calling a doctor in but I'm not sure why.

'My life...' I can feel all the breath leaving me, threatening to be overcome with sobs again, '...will be **empty** without you.'

The door flies open all of a sudden and doctors flood the room, turning the lights back on, talking over one another in a mad frenzy.

It's only then that I realise that Hiccup's arms have somehow lifted around my torso and clamped themselves there, refusing to let go.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N:** Okay, I just wanted to say that I am so flattered by the support and kind reviews this story has got. You guys are just so damn sweet and I don't deserve any of you. Thank you so much for taking your time to read and review my story. I love you all to bits and I appreciate each and every one of you :')

* * *

'I went to a door.'

I glance at Hiccup, who has set his newspaper down on his lap and is now gazing out the window at the parking lot below. We've been in the hospital for five days and though there's still no certainty that his heart rate has improved enough for him to leave soon, he's up and breathing and that's all I care about. All this time, I have refused to leave his bedside; we curl up together in the small space, occasionally talking but most of the time just staring into each other's eyes, as if there's nothing else we'd rather look at.

'A door?' I ask, our hands clamped together, 'What did it look like?'

He stares out at all the individual cars lined up, at all the colours and sizes and for a moment he isn't there; he's remembering the dream world he stepped into the second time he died, that taunting paradise that he was never able to reach.

But he didn't _want_ to reach it this time. He didn't want paradise just yet. He had unfinished business back on this shitty earth to deal with first.

He acknowledges my question after several dull minutes of staring and asks, 'What did what look like?'

'The door.'

'Oh, the door...' for a moment he seems to forget his own statement, '...it was a strange door. Like...it didn't really have any colour. I don't know how to describe it. But I went up to it and knocked and nobody answered. I knocked again - still no one answered. So I knocked a third time and a voice told me to go back.'

'What was the voice like?'

'I don't know. I wasn't sure if it was male or female. It was just a voice. But it told me to go back down the steps behind me. It told me it wasn't my time yet.'

He slowly wraps up the paper, the one with both our faces on it that's now on sale for $2 in every news stand in Burgess.

'I went to God's door...and he sent me back...'

It's like everything around him has turned to dust. He sighs and rests a cheek against my hair, his hands curling up and scrunching the newspaper in his hold.

'What's going to become of us, Jackson?'

'I'm beyond caring.'

'Will you leave?'

I'm not motivated to answer this question yet. To be truthful, I didn't really hear him. I stare over at the wall and suddenly I've forgotten myself; I realise that in these past few months I have completely forgotten who I am. It's like I'm living someone else's life.

It's not _my_ life anymore.

'Jack, did you hear what I said?'

'No, I'm sorry. What was it?'

'Will you leave me?'

'Of course I won't.'

'Do you promise?'

'Hic,' I crane my head to look up at him, 'Why would I ever leave you?'

'I don't know...your boss would disapprove, you've only just separated from your ex-partner...things are just so messy right now.'

'We'll get through it,' I grasp his hand in mine determinedly, 'The both of us, together.'

He curls around me as if wanting protection, his feeble hands gripping the collar of my shirt, 'Tell me about your childhood Jack. You know everything about me but I know nothing about you.'

I know that I cannot bring myself to tell him everything; my childhood is something very private to me and I wish to keep it that way; however, I realise now that my carelessness resulted in Hiccup's childhood becoming headlines all over Burgess, so I'm left slightly torn between choices.

'...My mother left us for another man when I was five years old. I never saw her again since she left; my Papa raised me alone and she never bothered to get in contact or make any attempt to see me. My Papa and I were close when I was a child; he read to me, sang to me and whenever I had written a story or one of my stupid fake articles, he would read it with intense concentration and then tell me what he thought at the end. When I was a bit older, he would help me sort out my grammar and spelling mistakes to make my writing clearer. He believed in me, I know he did. That was something I haven't felt in a long time - the knowledge that someone believes in me.

My Papa died when I was just sixteen; he had a tumour in his leg and there was nothing anyone could do about it, so it was really all a waiting game until his body finally packed it in and gave way. I still beat myself up about it to this day because...well, I had to look after him see and after a while it became too much. I began to resent him for being ill. I found him so overbearing. Then Pitch...my ex-partner...he asked me to marry him and I saw this as a way out. I told my Papa I was engaged and he said I was too young, I was leaping into things, I didn't know what I was doing. We had a fight and I stormed out. A month later, I get a call from my uncle telling me he died; they just found him in bed in the morning and he was gone and I never had a chance to say goodbye or ask for forgiveness. I went to his funeral and sat with his coffin for a bit, cried, talked to him, the usual stuff. And he was gone. The only person who had actually believed in me was gone...

After that I broke off my engagement with Pitch and became determined to pursue a career in writing. If my father loved my stories, something told me the world might as well. I just want to make him proud...say sorry for being so ungrateful. Let him know that I really loved him and that I really miss him.'

Hiccup takes my hand, 'He understands Jack.'

'Yeah, I think he does.'

We both turn and look at each other, open our mouths to speak and then start laughing. It's too difficult to drink in the madness that has just occurred, the strange reality that somehow we ended up together, in each other's arms and that it feels so natural, as if we knew each other before we had even met.

'Promise you'll never leave,' he whispers again, his voice withdrawn and ghostly, 'I've died twice already, Jack. I don't want to die a third time, not yet.'

His words are like stabbing daggers; I reach over and my finger involuntarily begins to stroke the velvet softness of his bottom lip.

'I promise you. A thousand times, I promise you.'

I'm exhausted after all the talking. Hiccup suggests I get some sleep and spends the next thirty minutes or so playing with my hair while I allow my eyelids to flutter close and the early stages of slumber consume me. And I'm not sure whether he intended for me to hear his words or not, but just as my conciousness is eroding, he leans down and the warmth of his lips meet my flushed ear.

'**_I'll never stop believing in you Jack_**.'


End file.
